The Last Letter Home
by Beloved of Apollo
Summary: To protect her son, Emma secretly writes letters to him as his seafaring 'father'. But when the illusion starts to fall apart, she has two choices. Tell Henry the truth, or hire some guy to pose as his dad for a day. She chooses the lie, not knowing she'll change three lives forever; hers, her son's, and the stranger who finds he doesn't want just one day. He wants forever.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from this show. Nor do I own Tic-Tacs or Windex or any of the brands I mention. If I did, I'd give free Tic-Tacs to everyone who reviewed this story.

* * *

Emma was glad she went with the pink dress. Scumbags liked the pink dress. Pink was sexier than white but more innocent than red.

Scumbags liked sexy but innocent. They liked young. Prepubescent even. In the pink dress, she looked young.

The restaurant her target picked was young, and hip too. Low lighting, clean lined furniture in dark woods and leather, a decent DJ manning the music. As she wove her way through the crowd, she counted more booths than tables. Booths afforded more privacy. Young, hip restaurants only offered so much privacy when casual hookups and cheap champagne were on the menu.

So as she glided over to the table, smooth and steady on her stilettos, she kept her expression shy, eyes flitting from the ground to the table. Emma recognized the man sitting there immediately. Same Wahl one-cut brown hair, same handsome, though unkind face. The mug shot really hadn't done him justice.

Ryan Burke. Young, hip, worth about thirty grand to her. More to his wife and kids.

Freshly manicured fingers sliding up the banister, Emma giggled like a blushing bride, hoping to get Burke's attention. And goddamn, did it work. He looked up from the table and his whole face lit up, first at the sight of the pink dress, then at her timid smile. Then the dress again. And again.

Yep, scumbag.

A mid-thirties, business casual, cuckolding scumbag. Easy as pie.

"Emma?" he questioned breathlessly as he stumbled to his feet, stumbling eagerly in her direction. Emma played her part perfectly, tilting her head to the side like an inquisitive bird.

"Ryan?" she replied, giggling when he nodded. "You look relieved."

Ryan (god, what a jock name) tipped his chin to the table. Not out of shyness or embarrassment. No, that was all guilt over the lie about to spill out of him. It didn't take a psychologist to figure that out.

"Uh, well, it _is _the internet," Ryan informed her, kind of snidely to be honest. "Pictures can be –"

"Fake, outdated, stolen from a Victoria's Secret Catalog," she offered quickly as she sat down. She didn't bother pulling her chair to the table. Neither of them would be staying long. But still, she crossed her legs, smiling a closed-mouth grin at Ryan's leer.

"Exactly, so… um, tell me about yourself, Emma," Ryan the scumbag countered politely, like he actually gave a shit. The lingering once-over he gave her chest suggested otherwise. But what the hell. She could play along.

"Today's my birthday," Emma admitted bashfully, looking down at the tablecloth. She used that line often, though it actually was her birthday (and what a birthday it was turning out to be).

"And you're spending it with me?" Ryan came back at her with, gawking like it was _his_ birthday. "What about your friends?"

"Kind of a loner," she sighed, but she covered her unhappy tenor by shaking out her porn star curls and tipping her head again. Her smile dimmed a bit though, the corners of her mouth pinching unpleasantly. It was her birthday, damn it. She wasn't supposed to be here, chasing down scum. She had more, was worth more than that.

"And… you don't like your family?"

Emma's heart clenched tight, a slight prick of pain flashing through the organ, reflected by her hands fisting in her lap. Most of her jobs involved blatant dishonesty, this one no different. So yeah, she could lie, but that didn't make it easy, didn't make it hurt any less.

"No family to like." The smile dropped. Ryan's smile fell a bit too. Emma felt both of their acts slipping. Nothing brought a cheater down like a date with a dash of reality. He kept up the small talk however, his blind lust bowing to real lust for the skin under her pink dress.

"Oh, come on. Everyone has a family." She almost wanted to applaud him for pretending to care. Kudos to him for trying and all that, but it was her birthday, and she felt less than charitable at that moment. It was her birthday, she was spending it with a complete scumbag, and damn it, her dress felt a touch too tight.

"Well, yeah, but not everyone knows who they are," she managed to say with a grin. Woops, there went another lie. "Ready to run yet?"

"Oh, not a chance," Ryan chuckled and adjusted the napkin in his lap. "You, Emma, are, by far, the sexiest, friendless orphan I have ever met."

She laughed at that, because her only other option was to bend him over and slam her knee into his throat. Beneath the table, her hands opened into claws over her thighs, fingernails pressing deep into her knees. _It's just a joke_, she told herself. _A really tasteless joke._

"Okay, your turn," she cooed. "No, wait. Let me guess. Um, you are handsome, charming…"

Ryan's eyebrows cocked towards his hairline. He was handsome, charming, and eating out of the palm of her hand. Time to go in for the kill.

"The kind of guy who – and stop me if I get this wrong – embezzled from your employer, got arrested and skipped town before they were able to throw your ass in jail."

_Busted_, her smirk said as it reached toward her eyes.

"What?" the scumbag had the gall to chuckle, as if she was asking for directions in broken English. Holy crap, he still thought he had a chance with her.

Emma dropped the act and pressed on. Enough was enough. "And the worst part about this is your wife. Your wife who loves you so much that she bailed you out, and how do you repay that loyalty? You're on a date."

Scumbag-Ryan dropped the act too. The smirk too. "Who are you?"

Scoffing, Emma leaned back in her chair with a sly grin.

"The chick who put up the rest of the money."

"You're a bail bondsman," he stated more than asked. He knew how the night was going to end.

"Bail bonds-_person_," Emma corrected automatically. Bail bonds_men_ couldn't rock a sheath gown, but bail bondswoman sounded like the title of a late-night movie on Cinemax.

Without as much as a whimper, Bryan… Ryan? Whatever his name, the scumbag gave her one last look and flipped the table over, sending water glasses, napkins and those little sugar packets into her lap as he ran off. They always ran.

And even though they always ran, she couldn't help but look around the room, and ask herself the same question she'd asked… well, coming up on eighty-something times.

"Really?"

There was no point in running after him. She may have been wearing mile-high stilettos, but he couldn't outrun her boot. Plus, walking calmly just looked so cool, like something from James Bond. All that was missing was a huge chemical fire.

Sauntering out the front door, she jaywalked her way towards the late-model coupe parallel parked on the other side of the street, her nose wrinkling with her first deep breath. This part of town, much as she loved the area, always stunk of dirty water and cigarette smoke. The stench wafted past her face as she walked across the street, well, more like obstructed traffic, but luckily Ryan Burke hadn't gotten far. The boot made sure of that.

Acrid smoke rose up from the car's front end, and the engine roared with the gasoline flooding it. The idiot was still trying to floor it out of there. By the time Emma made it to the car, one hand against the coupe's roof, the whole street smelled like burning rubber. From his open window, Ryan looked at her with a desperate, angry look in his eye.

"Look, you don't have to do this, okay?" he pleaded, eyes narrowing as Emma snorted. Scumbags always ran, and they always told her she didn't have to do this. "I can pay you. I've got money."

"No, you don't," she laughed, "and if you did, you should give it to your wife to take care of your family."

Good men took care of their wives, their families. Bad men, like Ryan Burke and most of the men she knew, didn't.

Those unkind features tightened and harshened as he glowered at her. "What the hell do you know about family, huh?"

Ooh. _Ooooh._ Prick.

Reaching through the window, Emma grabbed Ryan by the nape of his neck and slammed his head into the steering wheel. It was more of an involuntary reaction than an active decision, so she didn't feel too bad about physically assaulting the pretty-boy scumbag. Ryan dropped like a fly, drooling into the luxury leather, unconscious and dead to the world; and though he was unconscious, she still felt the need to respond.

"More than you ever will."

* * *

By the time she made it back to the apartment, her feet ached, along with her stomach. The dress only fit like a glove if she skipped breakfast, lunch, _and _coffee, so she was starving and tired. Thankfully, the sushi place by her apartment was open until two, even though raw fish and seaweed weren't exactly filling. Everything else in her fridge required cooking, and with thirty minutes until midnight, cooking wasn't an option.

"Toast doesn't require that much effort," she muttered as she shouldered her way into the dark foyer, paper bag under her arm. As soon as she walked through the door, she kicked off her heels, hissing as her pinched toes pressed down on the cool hardwood floor. Her heels started to throb as she moved past the coat closet and air conditioning control. The a/c's digital screen read sixty-eight degrees, lower than she liked, she idly noted from the corner of her eye. Hell, lower than she allowed. Someone had been fumbling with it while she was gone.

Ah, well, worse things happened every day.

Plunking the bag down onto the granite island separating her kitchen and dining room, she rested her hip against the cool stone, took one look at the microwave's clock and closed her eyes with a wince. 11:37. The number alone amped Emma's exhaustion level up to fifty, until the need to collapse seeped from her very pores. But if she didn't eat something soon, she'd be nursing a massive migraine until morning. "Eel sushi and toast with apple butter doesn't sound so bad."

"Actually, it sounds disgusting," a small, sweet voice smartly informed her from the living room. "At least, not as good as yellow cake with chocolate frosting."

Yellow cake with chocolate frosting?

Oh. Right. It was her birthday.

Blinking sleepily, Emma smiled and cocked her head towards the couch, quickly finding the warmest set of brown eyes this side of the Atlantic, set in a pale, freckled face. Brown hair, ten-years-old, Cheshire grin. Her kid. Her son.

Her _Henry_.

"You, kid, should be in bed," she groused with no real venom, arms crossed under her chest. "It's nearly midnight."

Henry, her _baby_, smiled bright as the sun and all but launched himself over the couch, barreling towards her at breakneck speed. Kid was a racehorse sometimes, all excitement and spidery legs. Bracing herself against the counter, she chuckled as he flung his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek into her belly. God, what a relief it was to feel him wrapped around her, like the lining of her favorite leather coat.

"Happy birthday, Mom," he whispered, and suddenly her date with Ryan wasn't even a blip on her radar. Tears in her eyes, Emma pressed one hand between Henry's shoulder blades and threaded the other through his hair. It was as soft as ever and slightly damp, and the breath she huffed in through her nose smelled of white soap and mint. In the time she was gone, he'd baked a cake, cleaned up the mess and taken a shower. Knowing Henry and his complete lack of stamina, he must've been one good yawn away from collapsing.

"That's sweet, but you should still be in bed," Emma mumbled as she stroked the back of his neck. He needed to be in bed, but she wasn't about to send him, not now when she needed him more than her next breath. "But you know I can be persuaded. Especially with a cake that _somehow_ features your favorite flavors and not mine."

Shrugging one thin shoulder, Henry unwrapped his arms from her waist, took her hand in his and tugged her to the couch. He paid no heed to her tired feet, urging her along as fast as he could. Emma stopped putting up a (weak) fight as soon as she saw a bunch of cupcakes, probably twelve or so, arranged on a paper plate, since she didn't own her own set of dishes.

And every single one of those cupcakes had about eight candles jab into the top. There were more candles than frosting. She stopped counting at three dozen.

"Seriously, kid. How old do you think I am?" Emma sighed as she plopped down onto the couch, sinking into the leather cushions with a pleased groan. "I'm twenty-eight, not fifty-eight."

Henry crawled onto the sofa next to her, curling into a ball against her side. She knew he was tired, felt it in the way her pressed his face into her shoulder. He probably felt her fatigue when she rested her cheek against his hair. So maybe her feet needed to be cut off, and her stomach was about to digest itself, but for a few moments all she wanted was to cuddle her son. If the way he sagged against her way any indication, he did too.

"You're bombed, kid," she eventually murmured against his hairline while nosing his forehead. Underneath his shampoo he still smelled of cake batter. "I think we should pull a Bill Cosby and have chocolate cake for breakfast."

Her son, wonderful boy that he was, wrapped himself around her tighter and shook his head. "Nuh-uh. It won't be your birthday tomorrow."

"But I'll still be twenty-eight, so we're good on that account." Emma strummed her fingers against his spine, the sound muffled by his fuzzy pajamas. The fleece Bruins set trapped heat like a greenhouse, but they were his favorite. That's probably why the a/c was so low.

"Tell you what," she soothed as she moved her hand to his side, firming her grip there as she lightly shook him. "If you go to bed, we'll have the cake for breakfast, candles and all, and then we'll go to Fenway. Sox are playing the Rays, and Lester's pitching. Should be a fun game."

"Who's pitching for the Rays?" Henry asked as he tipped his head to look at her.

"Like you know," Emma quipped and pinched him lightly. "Unless it's the Yankees, you don't care who's pitching. Or batting for that matter, as long as I buy you nachos."

"With extra cheese?" Henry turned up his eyes with puppy dog sweetness, something he rarely did, being a good kid and all. That's probably why she folded so easily.

"Always," she assured Henry with a kiss pressed against his forehead. "Always."

With extra cheese promised, Henry kissed his mother on the cheek before trouncing off to bed. Emma watched until the door closed and the light bleeding beneath it flickered off. She almost wished he'd stuck around as she ate her lukewarm sushi (yep, definitely not filling), and one of the cupcakes – though she didn't light the candles. She'd wait for Henry to do that.

Sushi eaten and stomach satisfied, Emma toed her way into her bedroom, peeling off the pink dress and all the memories attached to it as she nudged the door shut with her foot. She dropped it to the ground, and reach behind her back to unsnap her bra, and…

And, holy fuck, every inch of her bedroom furniture was covered in clean laundry. The chaise lounge by the window, her night stands, the bench at the foot of her bed, all of it was awash in crisp cotton and the scent of Tide.

"Mother fucker," she groaned as she took in the bras, panties and jeans spread flat on every available surface. Camisoles hung from the lamps, for Christ's sake.

God damn it, she forgot it was laundry day. Friday was always laundry day, and she'd forgotten to put away the stuff she laid out to air dry. Mother _fucker_.

"I cannot do this right now," she mumbled grumpily as she pulled a pair of flannel pajamas (Bruins, of course) from her ceiling fan, the lone items hanging there. Muscle memory had them tugged over her bare skin in no time flat, and she relished the feel of the soft fabric slithering over her skin. It kept her from focusing on the wardrobe explosion she called a bedroom. "I should join a nudist colony."

In seconds, she'd cleared away two blazers and three pairs of dress slacks from her bed, plus enough socks to clothe an army. As the last set of tights fluttered to the ground, she pulled back the blanket and collapsed onto her bed, sinking into the squishy, Swedish foam mattress. She pulled the velvet coverlet and damask silk sheets over her slim form even quicker, impatient for heat. Luxury linens were one of her biggest weakness, and as she slid in beneath the cool fabric, she felt no need to justify the cost.

Peeking from beneath her comforter, she caught a glimpse of her alarm clock. 12:02, it glowed brightly.

"Bye bye, birthday," Emma yawned as she pressed her face into the pillow. She had barely drifted off when she heard her door creak open, followed by footsteps slipping around laundry baskets and piles of gym pants. Then, behind her, the bed dipped lightly. She felt a brief rush of cold air as the covers peeled back, before the sheets crinkled under the weight of a small body.

"Mom?" Henry asked quietly, scooting towards her until his hip was tucked into the small of her back, shoulder to shoulder. She heard his question clearly, even if he hadn't asked it.

"Of course you can stay," she sighed, tugging the blanket up around her neck. "Just don't hog the covers, 'kay? You're the one who turned down the a/c."

"I won't," Henry quickly promised before falling silent, and within seconds his breath turned deep and even. Emma listened to each and every exhale, counting them instead of sheep. Then, and only then, did she fell asleep, knowing that her kid was behind her, and that he always would be.

* * *

She thought Henry was going to wake her up at the crack of dawn, what with the cupcakes, but he let her sleep late. If eight a.m. could be counted as late.

"You've got a text," he called from the kitchen, his voice carrying over the clanging of pots and pans, probably a whisk judging by the scraping sound. Henry liked eggs in the morning, and he knew that she hated making them more than she hated cleaning up the mess he made.

Emma rolled over to her back, groaning against the stiffness in her joints and muscles. Eight hours of sleep was more than she was used to, and still not nearly enough.

"Could you bring it to me?" she yelled back as she rubbed the crud and leftover mascara from her eyelashes. Blinking against the grey light pouring through her window (rain clouds – no baseball today), Emma rolled to her back and arched her spine up, popping several vertebrae and the kinks in her shoulders. The ceiling fan whirling above her head wobbled, which always freaked her out, even though the electrician told her that was normal. Henry in the kitchen, her poorly engineered ceiling fan, the cars honking and skidding outside her window, they were all the sounds of easy mornings. Had Henry not woken her up, she could've slept until noon.

Spreading her arms and legs out like an octopus, she closed her eyes as Henry's steps thundered towards her door, quick and heavy. He'd never be a ninja. Eh, that was fine. He was sneaky enough when he really wanted something.

Door opening with the harsh bang on metal on drywall, Henry crossed the room quickly and hopped onto the bed. She bounced under the impact, but she laughed despite the jarring ache it sent through her, eyes still closed. Henry wormed his way up to her and plopped the iPhone down on her forehead, the weirdo.

"Did you check the screen?" Emma groused, relaxing her eyebrows to keep the phone from slipping.

"Nah," Henry quipped, quickly flopping down onto the other pillow. "But 'Out Here in the Fields' started playing. Made it to something about fields before fading out."

It took a minute for her sleep-addled mind to catch up, but when it did, she felt like she'd taken a sledgehammer to the gut.

"It's called Baba O'Riley," she muttered as she snatched the phone up, her thumb quickly swiping over the screen. She tried to tease him, mumbling under her breath about buying him every album by The Who, but she was distracted. Baba O'Riley was her only distinctive ring tone. Every other call sounded like an alarm clock. Baba O'Riley was Robert Reilly's ringtone. A terrible pun, but every text from the fellow bail bondsman contained equally terrible news.

Henry jabbered on about buying her a new Red Sox hat at the game today as she flicked her nail across the iPhone's gorilla glass. Her inbox had only one message from someone other than Henry. Robert Reilly, 7:46 a.m. eastern time,

_Bad news_, it began. Her throat clenched, then her stomach, and finally her heart by the time she'd finished the next sentence.

_Neal's no longer under house arrest and has been seen in Rhode Island._

"Sorry kid," she interjected quickly, before Henry got too carried away. "We can't go to the game today."

* * *

"I'm sorry," she said for probably the millionth time as The Bug crossed the border out of Vermont, wincing at the first road sign they passed. 'WELCOME TO MAINE – The Way Life Should Be.' More like 'WELCOME TO MAINE – Hit That Moose and Say Goodbye to Your Engine.'

Henry shrugged his shoulders and pressed his forehead against the window. "S'okay. Maine's supposed to have pretty good lobster."

God, she felt like shit, eyes narrowed guiltily behind her Ray Bans. She kept them fixed on the winding, two-lane highway, expecting a deer or maybe even a bear to cross the road, what with the trees blocking out the sun. Seriously, it was like they were driving through the Enchanted Forest. But hey, anything north of Massachusetts was just southern Canada.

"This is the last move, I swear. We're sticking around for a while." Or until Neal forced them into the Yukon.

"Don't worry about it. Why don't you tell me about where we're heading?"

A hot flash of tears slicked over her eyes at the soothing tone of Henry's voice. She always ripped him away from his friends, never offered him a true home, and yet _he_ felt the need to comfort _her_. If she weren't so busy feeling guilty, she'd be proud of him for being such an amazing kid.

"It's some town I've never heard of. Burgess or Burbank or something. They've got some of the best apples and raw honey in the state." She didn't mention that she'd picked the town randomly after seeing a picture and two-hundred words about it in the travel section of _New England House and Garden_ a couple weeks back. A quick Google search the night before revealed practically no crime and high scores for those statewide, standardized tests she took as a kid.

"Is there a job there?" Henry questioned on a yawn. He was probably tired after packing up everything they owned before piling into the car. They'd started shoving things in gym bags and suitcases as soon as she finished reading the text, only staying one more night in Boston before she ushered him to the Bug around six in the morning.

"No, but I don't have a job in Boston anymore. I got let go yesterday. Apparently I cost too much money," she answered easily, despite lying through her fucking teeth. She hadn't been let go, she'd quit, despite her boss's begging. Indeed, she cost too much money, but she always brought in the big bucks. "He gave me some great references." After she threatened his pork and beans like Lorena Bobbitt.

Henry was quiet for a minute before she felt the weight of his brown eyes on her, and she knew, just _knew_ the next question about to pop out of his mouth. He always asked it a couple hours into their road trips.

"Dad knows we're moving, right? You gave him our new address?"

_Oh God. Oh dear God. Shit._

"Not yet, but you know those letters spend a week at his ship's central mail depot in Maryland before being sent out. I'll send them our new address once we get settled in."

"Got it," Henry replied a bit more lively, probably because he loved hearing her talk about his _dad_, even if it was just a few sentences. "He should still be in South Africa right now."

_Of course I know._

"Really? That sounds pretty cool," Emma murmured, her voice as watery as her eyes. Oblivious to her discomfort, Henry turned back to the window, peering at the tree canopy extending over the road.

"He's there for two weeks. Can we stop for some food? Like, a real restaurant with tables and waitresses?"

"No problem," she breathed in relief, thankful enough to praise every deity for the change in subject. Hell, finding a real restaurant was the least she could do for tearing him away from the home he'd had for nearly two years. "Just read me the next couple of road signs and you tell me what sounds good to you."

Taking his task to heart, Henry kept his eyes peeled billboards and road signs. The first six exits had nothing but gas stations, Starbucks coffee and greasy fast food. Being this close to the coast, she'd hoped for charming seafood joints and roadside shrimp shacks.

"There's a couple of places ahead," he said of thirty minutes of rubbernecking. "Applebee's in Bucksport, and a few places in Storybrooke."

"Anything that sounds like a chain?" Emma asked, sneaking a peak at Henry, who had both hands against the passenger's window as he looked for more road signs. "You can use my phone if you want to know more."

"There were a few bakeries and some place called Granny's. I didn't recognize anything, but I could really go for a bear claw right about now."

Bear claws sounded good, good enough that she slowed down, turned on her blinker and exited onto F.M 496.

"As long as you eat some real food first."

* * *

Hello, OUAT crowd! I've stalked the stories here ever since I started watching Once Upon a Time, and with the Captain Swan virus going around this spring, I thought I'd jump on board.

This story is inspired by the movie _Dear Frankie_, starring the lovely Emily Mortimer and dreamy Gerard Butler, so go ahead and see that if you want to get an idea of where this is going. Some quick notes if you don't though: this story is entirely AU. There's no Enchanted Forest, no curse, and most importantly, Snow and Charming are NOT Emma's parents. Her real parents are the anonymous assholes she always thought they were.

I hope to update about twice a week, but just so you know, the romance in this story burns slowly. Stick with it, and your reward will be great.


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Dad,_

_We're moving again. Mom says we're going to stay put for a while, but she says that every time. It's okay though. We've been to some pretty cool places. This time we're going to Maine, which I can't say I'm looking forward to. Boston was so cool, and I was going to ask Mom if I could join a hockey team. Maybe they'll have a good youth league wherever we're going. Either way, I'm going to watch every Bruins game I can on TV, since I can't see them in person anymore. I know you're not a sports guy, but Mom is._

_Thanks for the map of Malaysia you sent with the last letter, by the way. I've added it to my scrap book with the others. Do you think you could send me one of South Africa if this letter reaches you in time? The coast line is only okay, but I'd love to add it to my collection._

_Well, Mom's nearly finished with her phone call. She's been talking for over a half hour, but it looks like she's done. I'll write to you as soon as we get to Burgess/Burbank/wherever._

_Love,  
Henry_

_P.S. Mom's birthday just passed. Maybe you could send her some flowers?_

* * *

Henry was writing again, Emma noticed as she slid a couple of quarters into the payphone. He had his favorite stationary set propped on the dashboard and a crisp piece of paper spread over the book in his lap. No doubt he was penning a letter to his Dad. He often did that on long car trips.

Emma sucked in a guilty breath through her teeth and dialed in the all too familiar number. With the phone tucked tightly between her shoulder and ear, she had both hands free to fiddle with Google maps. She only had three rings to trace a path to Storybrooke (15.7 miles east of her current location) before a husky, British-accented voice picked up.

"Robert Reilly, private investigator. How may I help you?"

"Hey _Robert_," she mocked gently as she turned her eyes to her son. "How's New York?"

"Skip the pleasantries, Emma," he laughed gruffly. "You suck at small talk."

She offered a hearty eye roll towards the heavens, realizing a moment later that he couldn't actually see it. "So Neal's out on the streets?"

Something shuffled in the background on the other end of the phone call. Papers, probably, if she remembered the perpetual mess cluttering Robert's desk.

"Apparently the Manhattan D.A. hated whoever he snitched on, enough that the ankle bracelet is gone. For now, at least. Neal's too much of a… _rebel_, to behave for long. Either way, he ditched that girlfriend of his, Tonya something, for a set of wheels and prepaid phone."

"It's Tamara," she corrected quietly, her brow furrowed as she watched Henry scratch furiously at his letter with the novelty pen he got from their last trip to Georgia. "They've been off and on again for years."

"Who cares? Knowing Neal, he's looking for you. You're his favorite toy."

A toy. Something to be played with and shelved once it lost its luster.

Shifting the phone from one shoulder to the other, Emma shook off her bad mood and turned back to her iPhone, scrolling through reviews of Storybrooke's restaurant scene. Decent burger joint (Granny's), but two fantastic donut shops and one gourmet bakery, specializing in vegan and organic shit.

"What should I do then?" she practically whined into the receiver.

"What you always do. Draw out lots of cash from your bank account, cut up your credit card and switch to a prepaid phone. Stop traveling as soon as you can. He's better at finding you when you're moving."

Emma went silent for a second or two, mulling over Robert's advice. Her eyes brushed back to Henry. The letter had been folded and stuffed into an envelope, and as soon as he finished writing the address (which he knew by heart), all he'd need was a stamp.

"Okay," she mumbled. "Okay."

"Now that's my girl. Take care of your boy."

_My boy_, she thought with a smile before remembering her manners.

"You do the same. And Robin? Say hi to Roland for me."

Robin. Not Robert. Robert was just a pseudonym to cover a seedy past.

A chair creaked over the call after a slight chuckle sounded her way, probably over the use of his real name, but they were close enough to cut the bullshit.

"He liked the book you sent him for his birthday."

That must've been his way of saying goodbye, because after that the call went dead. Robin protected his son just as fiercely as she protected hers. But the worst thing he ever did was giving out a false name. Walking back to the car, where Henry was licking a stamp, she knew that the things she did to save Henry from heartache were far worse than handing out a faulty business card.

"Wanna cupcake?" her son inquired politely as she slipped into the Bug. He pulled out the only Tupperware container she owned, now brown and sticky with frosting.

Slipping her key in the ignition, she grinned and poked his side. "What about bear claws?"

"I'm hungry now."

Most times she would've chuckled at his honesty, but as she turned the key, the Bug's engine gave a sputtering whine before buzzing to life. Underneath the noisy whir, she heard one of her belts flapping.

"Come on, baby. Don't give up on me now," she pleaded, bouncing up and down in her seat as she tapped the gas pedal, the brake pedal, hell, the floorboards if it helped. "You can't leave me."

The Bug had been dying for a while now, but like Rasputin, it just refused to kick the bucket. Sure, she was on her third transmission and who knows what timing belt, but goddamn it, she needed some proof that, once upon a time, Henry's father loved her the way she loved him.

"Sixteen more miles. That's all I'm asking." More bouncing. More pedal tapping. More mumbled prayers to a deity she wasn't sure she believed in.

"Seriously, mom?"

_Ugh, here's the windup_, she thought to herself. Seriously Mom? This car is older than water. Seriously Mom? We must have enough money for a Toyota. Seriously Mom? It's just a car. _And the pitch._

"I fear for my life every time I get in this car. Buy a Ford or something."

"Oh yeah? Just remember, kid. I won't feel the slightest bit bad about grounding you until you turn eighteen. And, trust me, I will _still_ have this car the day I boot your butt to the curb."

* * *

"_I wanna tell you all a story about a Harper Valley widowed wife,"_ the radio crooned as Emma turned the Bug down the main drag of Storybrooke. Seven miles away from town, any and all Top 20 or pop music stations kicked out, leaving her with nothing but singer-songwriter hits and the groovy sounds of the 60s and 70s. _"Who had a teenage daughter who attended Harper Valley Junior High."_

It made sense… sort of. The town looked like it was stuck in a time warp.

"In my art class, we saw some pictures by Norman Rockefeller," Henry wisecracked, all eyes as he peered around Main Street. "He must've come here for inspiration."

"Norman Rockwell, kid," Emma countered, one brow arched as she took in the sights. "And I'm pretty sure he would've found this place just a touch too wholesome."

All up and down the street, everything was painted (probably back in 1923) and laid by hand – lovingly, from the looks of it. To be honest, as she regarded the brick and mortar construction, the white-picket fences and brass doorknobs, she couldn't help but find it charming. Sweet. Like something from a childhood she never got to experience.

"There's Granny's!" Henry quickly cut in as he tapped his finger at the glass, pointing at a chalkboard sandwich board declaring that, indeed, the one-story building with branching ivy on the awning, was Granny's diner. And, hey, beef stroganoff was the soup of the day, and if you bought a slice of Marionberry pie, you'd get a free carafe of Columbian coffee.

"Oh man, kid. If I wasn't hungry, I'm starving now."

Henry grinned smugly as she parallel parked the Bug – expertly, thank you very much – a block past the restaurant. His seat belt flew as Emma wrestled with the parking brake (_goddamn it, stick, you better fucking __**budge**_), and quicker than she could scold him, he was out of the car and stretching his coltish limbs, door still open. If she'd had a new car, she'd ask him if she was heating the whole town, but, you know… old car. No a/c or heater besides an open window and blanket in the back.

"It smells so clean here," Emma began as she got to her long legs. She butted her hip against the door, the solid thud nothing compared to the practically perfect street. "Like, pine trees or springwater or-"

Henry, sensing some really bad poetry, promptly butted in. "Deodorant. It totally smells like men's deodorant."

"Uh... Sure?"

Arm in arm, both doors closed without bothering to lock them (like anyone wanted to steal a bright yellow VW), they strolled down Main Street. Birds serenaded them as they made their way to Granny's, which was nice, considering no one else gave them the time of day. No one they passed said hello, although a middle-aged gentleman with curly, red hair doffed his hat at her and directed his equally well-behaved Dalmatian to the other side of the street.

"Burgers and fries for my munchkin?" Emma teased while lightly jabbing her elbow into Henry's side. He rolled his eyes, something he'd picked up from her over the years.

"Yeah, and a glass of water for the Wicked Witch of the West."

Wicked Witch?

Oh yeah.

He meant her.

"Smart aleck," she needled grumpily, leading him onto the restaurant's patio. Only one person had a table there, a blonde-haired, blue-eyed sheriff in a shoulder holster, hastily scribbling on a legal notepad, his eyes puffy and dark circled. Well, she hoped he was a sheriff. With those colors, he could've been partial to scary, Aryan ideals for all she knew. Her hand fluttered over her hip as Henry held open the door for her, wishing her gun would materialize. Alas, her application for a concealed handgun had been denied. Eight times in a row.

"Only when you call me a munchkin. At least I'm not the scarecrow."

A hearty chuckle was the only response he got, and she let him interpret that however he wanted as she cast a bothered glance over her shoulder. From this angle, she caught a flash of light flickering on the blonde's belt. A copper star on black leather. Definitely a cop.

When the door closed, the picturesque, Norman Rockwell façade disappeared, with a hard slash of red lipstick and tattooed booty shorts.

"Welcome to Granny's. Go ahead and sit down wherever you like," a rather Amazonian waitress tossed out at them as she swaggered past, her long, thin arms loaded down with plates and trays. "I'll be by with menus in a sec."

Eyes glued to the waitress's butt, since it was displayed so proudly despite being kind of scrawny, Emma nodded once and walked Henry in the opposite direction. The brunette with the red streak trailing from her temple screamed sex just a little too loudly, and today was not the day to give Henry 'the Talk.'

"Like _you_ need a menu. All you ever order are bacon and blue cheese burgers with garlic parmesan fries." The look Henry gave as she sat down was best described as pointed, those warm, brown eyes narrowed like a hawk. He folded his freckled hands on the table and thinned his mouth into a disappointed frown. For sure, he expected her to fuss with the wait staff until the manager came out. Really, it had only happened two or three times in the last six months.

"If it's on the menu, sure." Emma tried not to wither under Henry's stare as she wiggled out of her brown leather coat, but damn, that was one sharp-eyed glare.

"Then why do you argue for it when it's not?"

"Hmph." But point taken, really. "Then why don't you order for me?"

"Or maybe," Sex-on-legs-in-an-apron cut in with a menu in each hand. "I could read tell you the specials, make some recommendations if those don't work, and get you both a drink."

They both looked up at the same time, and, oh thank you Jesus, Henry didn't look the slightest bit interested in Ms. Perky Tits as he took his menu. Without that crisis to worry about, Emma was much more willing to smile, offering a slight grin as she plucked the joint's carte du jour.

Following an order of mozzarella sticks, one coke and one unsweet, cranberry iced tea, Ruby - if that was her real name – stalked off towards the bar, all heels and boobs and manners just on the tolerable side of bad. What with calling them damn tourists and complaining about her stupid grandmother's 'no sex with customers' rule.

Her mouth hadn't improved by the time she got back.

"We can do the bacon, but not the blue cheese. And unless you want your _garlic parmesan_ fries with a side of spit, I suggest you either order them plain or get a side salad."

She took a bacon cheeseburger with American cheese and good old-fashioned French Fries. Henry ordered chicken fingers without looking at the menu, because every Americana restaurant had chicken fingers. Anything to get the scary waitress away from them.

"Do we have a birthday over here?" Ruby called as she walked over to an overenthusiastic table of twelve. "Because I'm _sick_ of birthdays!"

"Huh." Emma looked back at Henry, cocking a brow at the single syllable and getting a shrug in response.

"It's not too different from Boston after all."

The rest of the meal came and went amiably. Henry liked the decor - the splashes of red scattered through the grey forest motif; the fries had been cooked in beef fat so they were the best things to ever grace her taste buds. And Marionberries? Turns out they were just a special kind of blackberry. Even with that slight disappointment, both she and Henry had a blast. Nothing beat watching Ruby get gradually more annoyed as the forty-five minutes they spent there passed.

"I'll take two nothings for table seven!" she cried out at one point when a teenage couple in a corner booth asked for more time.

Man, what a bitch. The only time she perked up was when a black-haired Twiggy in a lavender twinset breezed in, with all the elegance of Grace Kelly and the high, rounded cheekbones of Katharine Hepburn.

"Jesus," Ruby groaned as the pixie hoisted herself into a bar stool. She crossed her ankles, smiled demurely and propped her chin in her open palm. Apparently she was used to Ruby's antics. "Today sucks, please tell me you want something simple."

The waif responded by arching both brows towards her hairline.

"Right," Ruby sighed. The sound was practically orgasmic compared to the caustic tone everyone else enjoyed. "Hot chocolate with cinnamon and a maple-bacon apple fritter. Thank God you're predictable."

In the right light, with a couple of filters thrown in, the way Ruby's lips twisted might've resembled a smile. On anyone else, it qualified as a grimace.

People watching had always been one of her favorite past times, but when Henry came alone, it turned into a survival mechanism. Emma was a helicopter mother, and anyone in the room was an enemy Blackhawk. But it afforded her a superhero power, sans tights and a cape.

No one could lie to her. All she needed was a lingering once-over to know their quirks, to know the ticks and twitches that signaled a lie. So she knew that Ruby's bad attitude came from an eight-hour shift with the questionable support of spiked stilettos, that the sheriff outside probably took breaks as often as J.D. Salinger wrote, and that the women with the pixie-cut had more patience than all of the saints combined. Most definitely, Ruby appreciated her for it.

And when she turned in her seat, back to Henry, she caught sight of the sheriff staring longingly through the window at Ms. Pixie Cut. Emma knew that their back story couldn't have been pretty, otherwise they would've been in here together. But, at least for him, whatever memories he had were full of love. He looked at her like he'd been living in a cave, and she was the sun and moon and stars.

"Holy crap, did you hear what that lady ordered?" Henry asked with so much wonder, distracting her from her perusal. She was strongly reminded of Easter baskets and Christmas morning. "We need to order one of those. No, three. One for you, one for me, and one for me again."

Shaking her head at Henry's slightly manic grin, Emma flagged down a waitress and ordered two hot chocolates and six of those maple-bacon apple fritters. One for him, one for her, and four for the idea mulling in the back of her mind.

"How about we spend the night here?" she asked while quickly glancing out the window. The sheriff was on his feet now, tucking his legal pad into a scuffed messenger bag. The hand fiddling with the buckles had a wedding band on it. Very telling. "This place is attached to a bed and breakfast, and if I get back in the Bug right now, I might drive us off a cliff."

Henry's eyes were glued on the bar, on the steaming cup of cocoa and glistening doughnut placed in front of Ms. Pixie Cut. Just looking at them was a religious experience for Henry. "Yeah, sure," he muttered as Ruby abandoned Ms. Pixie Cut.

"We have a few rooms available, including a suite," she declared brusquely once she returned, two cups of cinnamon perfection in her hand. Any good will Ms. Pixie Cut imparted to the waitress was clearly forgotten. "I can get someone to check you in once you're done eating. Don't expect towels until six though. The dryer's on the fritz again, so they're hanging from a clothesline."

"That'd be great." Emma would've added more, but a curvy blonde in a too-tight uniform had their doughnuts in hand, and she needed to surrender them before things got ugly. The closer the fritters got, the heavier the scent of gooey, syrupy heaven grew, with a delectable chaser of candied bacon.

Ruby snatched the plates from the blonde, who threw her hands up in the air and stomped over the door.

"In the morning," she bit out, "to save us all some time, just order the 'Mary Margaret'. And _do not_ ask for substitutions."

Both she and Henry nodded quickly, hopefully in an appeasing manner, because Ruby's lip was curling, and her wolf-teeth were very white and very, _very_ sharp.

Mary Margaret.

So that was the pixie cut's name.

"Goddamn it," Ruby mumbled as another huge party rolled in, this time composed entirely of senior citizens. One of whom was carrying a large pastry box wrapped in a pink bow.

"I am so _sick_ of birthdays."

* * *

She had to admit, the suite was nice, especially at $75 a night. One master bedroom, a brand new sofa bed, and a claw-foot bathtub made for one hell of a hotel. She could've done without the wallpaper, but at least it wasn't roses or squirrels or something equally insipid. And when she opened the bedside table, she found Paul Mitchell toiletries instead of a Gideon Bible. Like Ruby warned, there weren't any towels.

"First dibs on a shower when they get here!" Henry called out as he ran from window to window, judging which room had a better view. Ha, that was cute, the way he thought he had a choice in where he slept.

"Sure thing kid. The bellhop says this place has a tankless water heater, so take all the time you need," she answered back as she changed out her leather coat for a comfy Florida State sweater. She didn't care for the team much, but the swag came free when she busted the University of Florida lacrosse team for jumping bail on jacked up marijuana charges.

While Henry poked around, mostly to satisfy his curiosity, Emma plopped down into an armchair by the window, propping her feet on a matching ottoman. She pulled out her phone and with the help of the 'locate me' function, brought up some info on the sleepy little town.

Two kindergartens, both NAICI accredited. One combined elementary and middle school with ample magnet classes, and a high school that offered nearly thirty dual-credit classes. Not to mention a 99% graduation rate.

Three more finger swipes to the elementary school's faculty page, and then one more to the fourth grade section pulled up two faces. One Mrs. Esther Parker, a stern-faced woman with some very prominent frown lines and the tightest frown Emma had ever seen, and a Ms. Mary Margaret Blanchard. So _that's_ why she was so patient. Ruby was nothing compared to a room full of ten-year-olds. Emma had her hands full with only one. Both Mrs. Parker and Ms. Blanchard had some of the highest scoring students in the state, though the children in the photo of Ms. Blanchard's class practically glowed with happiness.

Henry glowed when he was happy.

The idea that took root in the restaurant bloomed into an insistent hope, and as she tapped her fingernails against her teeth, Henry banging around the kitchenette behind her, she couldn't find a reason _not_ to be hopeful. There was a lot to be said about a good school system, about a town without a Walmart. Yeah, there might not be work, but she could freelance around the state, out of Bangor and Portland. Henry was already a latchkey kid. Surely there was a babysitter or nanny who could take over when she needed to stake out a perp overnight.

"I looked through a brochure in the lobby," Henry cut in, knocking her from her reverie and her feet from the stool, only to pull them back into his lap. Emma smiled and dropped the phone to her lap as he thumped his fingers against her arches. "And it says this town's movie theater was constructed in the thirties. It has private booths and everything."

"If you're asking if we can see a movie, the answer is yes. And yes, popcorn and nachos for dinner are fine." Henry's grin lit his whole face (giving him that glow), pulping her heart into a squishy pile of love and resignation. Damn it, she just didn't know how to say no to him. She could add a stipulation of her own though.

"As long as we have the cupcakes you made for dessert when we get back."

* * *

_Interlude: David_

* * *

David lingered after his lunch break. It was almost one, and he needed to get back to the station if he was going to get his paperwork done before he went on night shift, but he couldn't leave until _she_ came out, until she was safely buckled in her SUV, wood-paneled doors locked with her behind them.

The divorce had been finalized for over a year now. They hadn't spoken in eight months, hadn't seen each other in nine. She still spoke to his mother, still put flowers on his father's grave on her way home from church, but him? She didn't bother with him. That was the way it went, right? Those were the rules of "it's over," and Mary Margaret always followed the rules.

This was their life now. A window or door between them at all times, nothing but memories and the quilts she sewed for him to keep him warm at night. But he needed to know she was safe, that nothing could get to her.

Finishing up with his notes on who punched who the night before at the Rabbit Hole, he put flattened the yellow pad of paper with his hands and shoved it in his bag. The fact that she hadn't bothered to say hello as she went into Granny's tugged at his heart, but Mary Margaret didn't do well with confrontation. Maybe when they were younger, when she still went to the archery range, but not now. Not after he'd messed things up.

Sighing heavily, he peered through the window one last time. She was wiping her hands on a napkin, listening to Ruby bitch about whatever was bugging her at the moment. Diners, the cooks, the tables… everything bugged Ruby. She lived in an eternal state of PMS. Mary dealt with it gracefully, eyes soft and nonthreatening as Ruby growled.

He'd park the cruiser across the street. Mary had parked in front of the animal hospital a few buildings down. If no one parked behind her, he'd be able to watch her.

David couldn't lie to himself. Every time he walked away from her, even if it was just across the street, it got just a little bit harder. It took all his strength from barging up to her and shouting about this shit hole they were in; and while strength was tiring, the weakness of giving in to his needs, and no doubt hurting her, was ten times more exhausting.

In the cruiser, he turned on his laptop and started going through the morning's report. All he had in the office right now was a state trooper, who got there at nine and left at two, but it was better than nothing. Still, considering the station was unmanned from three a.m to nine a.m., the situation was far from ideal. He needed some goddamn sleep, and five or six hours a night just wasn't cutting the mustard anymore. Sure, that's all he got when he was married, but that's because he and Mary Margaret usually made love every night. It helped with the headaches he got at work and knocked him right out.

Those were some good times. Sex morning, noon and night. Then Graham had to go and have a heart attack, leaving him alone to handle an entire town.

Thank God no complaints were filed that morning. Not even a noise complaint – it looked like he was in for a long night of solitaire. Maybe if things kept quiet, he could get that state trooper to stay over the weekend. He hadn't been out to the farm in two weeks, and he just knew that his beloved Andalusian was getting antsy in the fields.

Oh. _Oh_. There she was, coffee in hand, her flouncy, white skirt ruffled by the slight afternoon breeze. David let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Mary Margaret looked down both sides of the road before crossing it. Pinning her purse between her arm and her side, she placed her cup on the roof of her car before scraping her key into the lock. He watched as she stepped into the too-large SUV, chuckling under his breath as the kitten heel on her pumps caught in the running board. Must've been from the divot he'd left there last time he bought a Christmas tree. Mary Margaret gave a few kicks and it was free, and then the door was closed.

She was on her way home. Good.

Or not good, considering it was _her_ home, and not theirs.

But as long as she was safe, it was as good as it could be.

* * *

What a response this story has gotten! Lots of traffic, lots of favorite listings and followers, and some really nice reviews! How could I not write more and post quickly?

The main pairing of this story is Captain Swan, but we won't meet him for at least four more chapters. This story is as much about building Emma and Henry's life as it is about Killian, so we need to have mother and son go on a few adventures before throwing in a swashbuckling monkey wrench.

The secondary pairing, as you noticed, is Snowing. They won't get nearly as much screen time as Captain Swan, but to give you an idea of how their love story will be portrayed, I included that interlude at the end. If they aren't your cup of tea, just skip their parts - they won't happen that often. However, I will warn you that even though it didn't happen today, sometimes their interludes will help move the plot forward. David dropped some pretty obvious hints as to what the future holds.

I love how many of you have read, followed and added this story to your favorites, but reviews are the bread and butter that feed my imagination's stomach. Private messages is the crack that pushes out quick posts.


	3. Chapter 3

_Dear Henry,_

_Sorry about the move. I know it's tough. Moving, starting over. It's never easy. It's the worst sort of test. Even if you pass, even if you settle in and make new friends – plant roots and all – you've still lost a huge chunk of who you are. Where you are, in some ways, make you who you are._

_Go easy on your mom though. She moved around a lot as a kid. If leaving Boston starts to hurt too much, talk to her. She knows what you're going through._

_You'd like it here. Probably not the weather though. We're heading towards winter, whereas you're about to hit spring. The seasons are reversed in the southern hemisphere. On our way to port, we hit a storm system as big as New York. I had to stay inside for three straight days. At first, I tried to play cards with a couple of the guys, but none of us have a full deck. So I ended up reading "Fight Club" for the third time in as many months. No, you aren't allowed to read it or see the movie. When you're older, maybe, but not now._

_Coming into port was as good as it's always been. The ship slows down, the engine whirs, and birds start to land on the railing. Big, fat seagulls with tar on their feet. You hear the sounds of the city, the cars and the music, and the whole world fades away. Though I prefer being on the water, finding solid ground to stand on – if only for a moment – makes the months at sea go by faster._

_Well Henry, it's my turn on deck tonight, so I need to call it quits on the letter. I hope you like the map. I know it's only a postcard, but it's over fifty years old. It'll look great with your collection. Pretty soon you'll have your own atlas._

_Be good to your mother and do well in school. I love you, Henry._

_-Dad_

_P.S. Your mom likes buttercups. Pick her some and say they're from me._

* * *

"So… here?"

"Yeah."

"I'll go to school and everything?"

"Mmhmm."

They never made it to the movie, but they did find their very own castle by the sea. Henry had never seen such a cool play set (not one with turrets and a moat), so of course they had to stop and see. He'd never seen so many stars either, so, _of course_, they just had to lay down in the sand, to count every last one of them.

It seemed as good a time as any that she wanted to stay. In Storybrooke.

"What about an apartment? I didn't see a single high-rise on our way here."

Lying next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, Emma and Henry stared up at the clearest sky either of them had ever seen. Henry filled the air with questions, but Emma? Emma breathed in time with the waves lapping against the dock, in with the crest and out with the trough. Her eyes peered up at the sky, enjoying the blanket of stars, in the entirety of cold light as opposed to individual pinpricks. She'd never find a better lullaby than the ocean, or a softer pillow than the cold sand beneath her head. When she was a kid, she'd dreamed of tropical islands to deal with the reality of threadbare blankets and drafty bedrooms. Years later, _they _made a plan to build a future on the equator. This children's sandbox and tidal inlet, grey and rocky and chill to the touch… Clearly they would never pass for Tallahassee.

They were _better_.

"Maybe we could find a house if there aren't any apartments. No promises though."

Henry went quiet for a moment, either out of questions or thinking up a fresh batch, and Emma reveled in the silence. She didn't know about him, but staying in Storybrooke, for as long as they could, didn't necessarily feel right. Nothing about it, however, felt _wrong_. She couldn't find a reason not to stay.

Robin was right. Neal worked better on the road, with a paper trail of hotels and restaurants. Rent could come out of Paypal or direct deposit – harder transactions to get a hold of. Maybe she could get the sheriff on her side for once. Storybrooke was tiny – surely she could get to know the police force by name. Get them to love her son as much as she did.

"Could we get a dog?" Henry probed lightly as he slid the flat of his palm against hers, fingers wiggling between her much longer ones. Emma latched onto his hand quickly.

"Maybe."

* * *

They made it back to the hotel sometime after nine, sand in their hair and down the back of their shirts; after shaking out the grit and getting a good eight hours of shuteye – Henry of the sleeper sofa – they dragged their butts downstairs to the diner for coffee and eggs. Henry was too bleary-eyed to do much but dig into his French-rolled omelet and multi-grain toast, but Emma took in the 7:15 crowd, already familiar to her. Ms. Mary Margaret, eyes on an ancient copy of _Jane Eyre_, delicately licked oatmeal from a teaspoon; Ruby, a jar of nutmeg in hand, one finger tapping the powder into a chai latte. And the Sheriff? He was (badly) sneaking furtive glances at Mary Margaret between hearty swigs of creamed coffee. No, not coffee. Hot chocolate with cinnamon.

He left, then Mary Margaret left, and Ruby came over after delivering cinnamon rolls to a jump suited Dad with two kids. One boy, one girl, both in matching uniforms. The kids from the school's website wore the same navy blue slacks and plaid pinafores.

"How was the room?" Ruby asked tiredly as she crouched down next to the table. In those heels and hot pants, it couldn't have been easy, but somehow her lanky limbs managed it. With no Mary Margaret to calm her down, and a shocking number of octogenarians hefting down the early bird special, she must've been desperate for company. "We can put a space heater in there tonight, if it's too cold. If you're actually staying another night."

"Actually, I have a question for you," Emma responded, and Ruby replied by folding her arms on the table.

Emma took this as her cue to press on. "Who would I speak to about enrolling my son in school here? Do I just go to the school, or do I have to establish residency first?"

Ruby's sharp eyebrows shot up on her forehead and her lips went ever so slack. Of all the things Emma could've said, that was obviously the last one she expected. That almost smile crossed her mouth again, and thanks to her superhero powers, Emma could tell that was something close to delighted at the news.

"I'd go talk to the Chamber of Commerce first. We get a lot of people from commuters from Bangor, plus weekenders from Portland, so they give tours of the nicer neighborhoods and schools. They'd know better than I do."

"Thanks," Emma muttered as Ruby stretched to her feet, called away by a silver-haired woman (with Ruby's penchant for cleavage). They sniped as Ruby got to the bar, and Emma got back to finishing her coffee and bear claws.

Henry tapped his fingers on the table by her plate, effectively bringing her attention back to him. "It's March. I'd only be in school for another three months," he mumbled around a mouthful of bacon. "You think that's enough time to catch up?"

"You've been in gifted and talented classes since you were four. I think you'll do just fine."

They finished their breakfast quietly, like the sleepy night owls they'd always been, but Emma could tell Henry was pensive. After far too many first days at a new school, he was probably nervous. Just like his mom - who after being shoved from foster home to foster home, knew his anxiety all too well.

She would've told him he'd get over it, but she never did. Every move was harder than the last. If she never got over it, why would he?

* * *

They never found anyone from the Chamber of Commerce – something about a team building exercise in Connecticut.

But they did find one Regina Mills walking out of City Hall.

Brunette. Mid-thirties. Really prickly with no real fondness for strangers. Or anyone, really. But willing to take them on a tour of Storybrooke.

Reelection season was coming up, and Madam Mayor just looked too good on a business card to give up the title.

* * *

"I know a lot of you have been together since kindergarten," Mary Margaret intoned gently from the front of the class. With her arms crossed under her breasts and chin tipped high, she projected authority. Not height, by any means (as she rocked back on her dainty oxfords), but definitely authority. Twenty-eight small, smooth faces stared at her with rapt attention. No one whispered across the aisles at the news or bounced in their seats. Not like Mrs. Parker's students, who lived to needle the unyielding tutor.

"But that's no reason, whatsoever, to be unfriendly. I'm not saying you have to be best friends, but you do have to be courteous, patient and kind. Which is what you all are."

Even before she had walked into class that morning and informed them that they would have a new classmate, her students had buzzed with the news. Ava Zimmer had seen a tall woman with, just, the _prettiest_ blonde hair buying a uniform from the school tailor, and it looked about the same size as her brothers, so that meant a new student, right Mrs. Nolan?

(_Oh no, I'm so sorry Ms. Blanchard, I forgot about the di… Well, I need to get back to Mrs. Monroe._)

"Miss?"

Mary Margaret turned to Paige, who had one hand raised while the other frantically smoothed back a wayward lock of blonde hair. Poor Jefferson. He loved his daughter, but had yet to figure out what to do with her hair. Today it was plaited in a French braid that accidentally switched between three and four parts. Poor girl. Despite what the other parents said though, Paige did _not_ need a mother. Her father was doing just fine, if a bit sloppy.

"Yes, Paige?"

Both of Paige's slim hands moved to the delinquent curl. "Where's Henry from?"

"He and his mother moved here from Boston. But Paige," she paused, eyes narrowed knowingly. "I'm sure he would be happy to tell him yourself."

Smiling at the peachy blush high of Paige's cheeks, Mary Margaret turned back to her class. To one student in particular, truth be told. "When I let him in, don't look at him like a fish in a tank. Do you understand me, Nicholas?"

The little ogre wasn't hard to find – he was permanently assigned a seat in the front row. Nicholas Zimmer. A set of mischievous hands to match his sister's careless mouth.

_Here it comes_, she thought morosely as Nicholas's dark eyes lifted and flashed. _That wretched mouth he has_.

"Crystal clear, Ms. Blanchard. Just like aquarium glass."

Christ above, this day would be long.

* * *

"Who's the girl you sat him next to? The blonde one, not the Asian. She keeps patting her head."

Mary Margaret hesitated for one long moment, smiling bemusedly at Ms. Swan, then looked back through the classroom's window in the same line as Ms. Swan's – Emma's – gaze. Henry flicking through his literature text book to find the precise chapter. Myths and legends, this month's topic. Paige, her bottom lip between her teeth, subtly slid her book closer to him. She tapped her finger at the bottom corner of the correct page, so casually it might've been an accident. Mary's heart went all squishy at the girl's sweetness.

(And there was no ignoring the hopeful look in her wide eyes. Something more than excitement over a new friend. Springtime in fourth grade, well… it was the start of realizing the opposite sex had stopped being icky sometime before Christmas break.)

"Paige Grace, and Grace is her last name, so don't call her both. Her father does that when she's in trouble."

Emma's scrutiny hadn't relaxed. If anything, it focused in tighter on Paige and thinned her mouth into a skinny, pink edge. If that was the way she glared at a child, Mary Margaret was almost afraid of what an adult would have to endure. But only almost. Mary Margaret knew many menacing foes, and Emma couldn't dream of toeing their lines. Even if she shaved a lion, dressed in its mane, and barged her way in on the back of a dragon.

Mary Margaret had eaten dinner with Madam Mayor, her crazy mother, and equally loony half-sister in other words.

"He'll be fine, Ms. Swan. I have no rabble-rousers in my class. None that I can't handle," Mary Margaret assured her, drawing on all her courage when she reached out and took Emma's hand between her own. Emma gasped and blinked back her rage, her gaze swinging wildly back to the much shorter teacher. Taking everything into account, she looked almost afraid as she briefly squeezed her fingers.

"I know, and I've done this before," Emma mumbled. "He's done this before. I'm just sick of things going badly for him. He's very bright, you know."

"I'm sure of it," Mary Margaret came back with, in the tenor she picked up from her husband when he soothed skittish horses. "But there are several bright students in my class, who I know with all my being, will help him and guide him. He's sitting next to one of them right now."

Sitting next to one of them, and doing his best to ignore Paige and the sloppy blonde braid dangling near his shoulder. Mary Margaret was brought back to a different colored plait, and the long fingers that plucked it loose from its ribbon whenever it crossed his pillow.

Mary Margaret stopped still the memory with a heaving sigh. "If he struggles, you will be the first to know, Ms. Swan."

That turbulent, bullying look crossed Emma's face as she brutally wrung Mary Margaret's fingers.

"If you don't, I will _kill_ you."

Hissing at the pain (Jesus, she had some strong hands), Mary Margaret nodded and tried for a smiling sort of grimace.

"You don't have a lot of friends, do you?" Mary Margaret groaned once Emma was done with the knuckle-strangling.

Emma narrowed her eyes like a cat, growled like one too.

"How'd you guess?"

"Just a hunch."

* * *

The one thing he to remember about girls, his mom always said, was that they were _crazy_. She'd seen one-too-many spurned ex-wife take a baseball bat to the windshield on a $40,000 Hummer, one-too-many drunken go-go dancer go manicure to manicure with snippy waitresses. That's why, when Paige asked him to come play on the swing set, he politely declined. After frowning and mumbling something along the lines of okay, one of her friends swept her towards the jungle gym. Now her little clique was sitting underneath the monkey bars, brushing and twining each other's hair with brightly colored string. Not Paige though. She smacked away the first girl who tried to undo her braid.

Henry smiled at the pretty picture Paige made from where he sat underneath Ms. Blanchard's birdfeeder. Before she caught sight of him, he turned back to _The Audubon Society's Field Guide to Birds, Eastern Region_ propped open in his lap_. _It was one of the books Ms. Blanchard kept in the class library, and when he asked why she kept birdseed by her desk, she handed it over to him, like that was a good enough explanation. Then he saw the feeder and figured the rest out on his own.

It took several minutes of waiting, but ultimately his patience was rewarded. Henry grinned as a brushy-crested head swooped down to perch on the feeder's porch. Watery, black eyes flittered back and forth, back and forth before the bird disappeared in a flash of beating, downy grey feathers. A tufted titmouse. Then a black-capped chickadee, grey catbird and rose-breasted Grosbeak, all of which were chased away by a much-bigger blue jay.

Henry liked birds, but he never really got to see them in Boston. Here though, they were everywhere. He could hear them chirping and squawking even with the joyful shouts of kids who had been friends forever.

Looking over his shoulder, at the other children running around, hop-scotching and jump-roping, he maybe, sort of, almost felt nervous. That he wouldn't fit in. That they wouldn't want him.

That the smug-looking boy walking over towards him would want to talk to him, because he had a smile that promised meanness and insults.

"Couldn't get anyone but the birds to hang out with you?" he sneered once he was close enough, his hands in his pockets. Nicholas. That's what Ms. Blanchard called him. An insult, but a really weak one, so Henry gathered he was really mean, but also kind of stupid.

Henry would've been quite content to ignore the twit and just deal with whatever came with his way, but he never got the chance.

"Why don't you just lay down and die, Nicholas?"

Matching looks of shock crossed the two boys' faces as they took in {aige's sudden appearance. She stalked towards the two of them, looking like a lion with her tangled blonde hair and deep scowl. Henry's eyes widened as she stepped right into Nicholas's personal bubble. He couldn't help but notice how tall she was. When he sat next to her in class, she had maybe a few inches on him, but she stood nearly half a head taller than Nicholas.

Whether it was her height or her tone, Henry would never know, but Nicholas quickly scampered in the opposite direction. Paige stood guard until he was on the other side of the playground, when suddenly she dropped the bulldog act. Smiling (rather cutely, he had to admit), she skipped to his side, dropped to her knees and lightly elbowed him in the side. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make sure he was paying attention to her and her alone. As if he wouldn't pay attention to her after that.

"Ms. Blanchard says that there are some woodpeckers in the big oak, the one by the seesaws. She showed them to me one day. Wanna come over with me and look for them? We could use the book to figure out what kind they are. Ms. Blanchard might put a gold star on our progress charts if we do."

Girls were crazy, Mom said, and maybe she was right. And maybe Paige was crazy too. But then again, it might be a good kind of crazy, because when he agreed to go along, she smiled even more happily and dragged him to his feet.

_What the heck_, he marveled as Paige tugged him by the hand. _Maybe I could go a little crazy too_.

* * *

_Dear Dad,_

_I started class today, and already I've got two gold stars on my progress chart. I earned the first one for knowing what the capital of Belgium was (Brussels) and the second one for spotting a Pileated Woodpecker in the schoolyard. And you know what? I've made a friend. His name is Nicholas Zimmer, and he couldn't even remember what the capital of Maine was. Augusta, and he's lived here all his life._

_I made another friend, Paige, who sat next to me at lunch and played rock-paper-scissors with me while we waited to be picked-up. She tried to introduce herself to Mom, but I think Mom scares her. Mom scares everyone, because the only time she looks happy is when she smiles. Her mouth is just kind of frowny that way._

_Paige's Dad came over and said hello, and told me where they lived. In case I ever wanted to come over and do homework. Mom didn't smile at all when she introduced herself, but Mr. Grace – that's Paige's last name – was all smiles, saying any friend of Paige's was welcome in his house, and if she ever needed a babysitter, Paige's nanny was available in the evenings. I like Paige, but she's kind of tall. It's weird, because we're the same age._

_You know how I got into classes, even though we've only lived here three days and are still living in a hotel? The mayor of Storybrooke helped! She was on her way home when Mom asked her about chambers or something, but even though she seems really mean, she took us to the school and ordered the principal to let me attend. Then she took us to meet Ms. Blanchard, my new teacher, but the mayor called her Mary and she called the mayor Regina. I think they're related, but they didn't seem too happy to see each other._

_Either way, I really like Ms. Blanchard. She's smart and patient and really nice. Right before school let out, when I asked her about which Greek god was her favorite, she gave me an encyclopedia about Greek myths and legends. She told me to look up Eros, and then Psyche. I'm going to after I'm done with homework. _

_I like it here, Dad. Please tell Mom that we should stay._

_Love,_

_Henry._

* * *

This chapter is shorter than the other two, because I wanted to get it out before tomorrow's episode. Hook better not fool around with the black-haired girl at the bar!

Thanks for all the favorites and follows, and most of all the reviews. Reviews are like crack, and I need my next fix!

Oh, and these chapters are not beta-read. Any of you up for the job?

PM me if you're interested.


	4. Chapter 4

_Dear Henry,_

_Tomorrow we sail for India, which means we'll be going around the Cape of Good Hope. I promise to send you spices as soon as we get there. I'll only be in port for three days however; just long enough to pick up our cargo. I know you'd like to know what it is, but my boss isn't too keen on telling anyone but the crew._

_It's good to hear that you're making friends. If you want to make more, just be yourself. If you pretend to be something you're not, you'll have to pretend forever – and that's too great a burden for you to carry. _

_For the longest time, Hercules was my favorite myth. He was a rock star when I was a kid. After your mom had you though, I couldn't read it anymore. It was just too scary. Nowadays, I really like the story of the Minotaur._

_I'll let your mother know that you want to stay, but I think she'd listen to you over me. Don't be afraid to tell her._

_I love you Henry. Don't ever forget that._

_- Dad_

* * *

Luck. Sheer dumb luck. That's the only way they got an apartment in less than a week. With a final hip butt, Emma shoved the bedsit's door closed, carrying in the last of her belongings from the Bug. Henry was banging around upstairs, undoubtedly making up his bed with the linens she bought that morning. It was his first queen size bed, what Emma referred to as a 'big boy' bed, much to his chagrin (_Geez Mom. I'm not five anymore_). Then he promptly disproved the term by lugging her onto the mattress, where they tested the springiness of the coils with a few hearty jumps. Almost as bouncy as a trampoline, Henry had declared proudly.

Panting, Emma dumped the box of spices onto the butcher block island. Bottles of pink salt and fennel rattled around alongside huge containers of cumin and dried basil. In all honesty, she had no fucking idea why she brought them. In the rushed panic of packing up her Boston flat, she grabbed some interesting items, to say the least. Not a single DVD, CD, or candle made it, but by God, she made sure to grab her classic vinyl records, the last jar of peanut butter, and her Swedish back massager.

Heh... _back massager_. Yeah. Sure.

Grabbing that oh-so necessary jar of peanut goodness from the box, she turned the lid, flinging it into the kitchen sink. One finger swirling in the sticky brown…was it a liquid? What the hell form of matter was 'paste'? _Fuck it_, she thought as she sucked her finger into her mouth. Whoever owned the apartment's lease left all of their really girly and super shabby chic furnishings - which, ew, pastels and lace, come on - but they also left a beautiful record player. Vintage, for sure, made of warmly stained mahogany and polished brass.

"_Pirate Radio_, side B, song two," she cooed as she pulled out her favorite record from its sleeve, placing it in the player with tender, loving care before laying the needle down. It took a few seconds for the song to get going, but when it did, it hit the spot. "Hi ho, silver lining. Jeff Beck, you are the only man for me."

Besides Henry, that is.

Shimmying and sashaying to the song, peanut butter in hand, she danced her way to the alcove that held her bed. More frilly, delicate shit, and she certainly couldn't bounce on the beauty of that wrought iron bed. Not without forfeiting her safety deposit. But she did flop down, face first, into the white quilt, extra careful not to wipe her sticky fingers on the coverlet. The ad for the apartment promised hand-finished touches and vintage finds, and the blanket most likely fit one of the two genres. Probably both.

"No!" she heard Henry call as he thundered down the stairs. "No napping! We have to leave for Paige's in fifteen minutes, and I've never walked there before. God knows you won't let me try by myself."

Voice muffled by the world's squishiest down pillow, Emma reminded him for the millionth time, "The world is full of monsters, Henry," as any good helicopter mom would. "But I'll be up in a sec. Go get your coat."

_Hi Ho, Silver Lining_ bled into a jingle from the 60s, and then _I'm a Believer_ by the Monkees as Henry bounded back to his room. Underneath that, she heard her personal tornado siren, her very own fire alarm. Courtesy of The Who and their fifth studio album.

"Fuck shit," she muttered as she rolled off the bed, running over to her purse. She dug through three bottles of hand sanitizer, and way more lip balm than necessary, before getting to her iPhone. After some majorly ridiculous fumbling, she answered it and held it to her ear.

"Yo," she greeted Robin before he could scold her. "Any good bounties up here in baby Canada?"

"One - answer your phone quicker. Two – while you're awful at small talk, a little regard for my personal life would be nice. Roland's doing fine, thank you very much. His new favorite word is no, and it's making my life a living hell. And three - to answer your question – no. Nothing that wouldn't cost you more than you'd make. A couple of sorority bunnies skipped bail on possession charges, but I hardly think $500 is worth the effort. And now, my toddler is telling me 'no, he won't stop cracking eggs into the dryer.' Happy hunting."

Emma was startled by Robin's quick exit, and she could only stare at her phone as Henry came up behind her, bundled smartly in his coat. He thrust her favorite leather jacket forward, clearly remembering the unexpected cold snap they got the night before.

"Put some pants on, would you?" he groused as he reached into his pockets for his gloves. Emma looked down at the capris, well, not-capris, she had on. Plucking at the fuzzy Batman bottoms, she had enough shame to smile sheepishly.

"These are yours, aren't they?"

"Pants. _Now_. And something clean, please. The PTA meeting is tonight."

Once she had her own pair of pants on (a significantly more uncomfortable pair of skinny jeans), she locked up the apartment and together they walked to Paige's house. If she was being truthful, leaving Henry with Paige's mad-as-a-hatter Dad fell somewhere between taxes and colonic irrigation on her list of favorite things to do. Jefferson Grace was missing one too many screws in her book, but Henry had promised Paige they'd finish their birdhouses together. Crazy as that sounded, birdhouse-crafting really was part of their curriculum, and not just an excuse to chill with Paige.

"Why are we doing this again?" Emma questioned as they approached the Grace household, wiggling her shoulder against the weight of Henry's backpack. Third house to the left on Drury Lane, the one with the pink flamingos and ceramic bunnies in the front yard. Oh yeah, Jefferson was nuttier than pecan pie.

"Because Ms. Blanchard donates bird shelters to the animal shelter every year. They send them to the Humane Society for bird rehabilitation. It's actually been a lot of fun working on them."

Barely three seconds after they stepped onto the driveway, Paige hurtled out the front door, laughing as her father nipped after her. He had a pair of pink Uggs in one hand, and what looked like five sweaters in the other, which made sense, given Paige's bare arms and feet.

"Paige Theophila Grace, get back here right now!" he cried out. Paige ignored him and skipped over the grass, nearly knocking Henry to the ground as she threw her arms around him. He had no time to return the hug before Paige granted Emma the same honor, embracing her waist with all the strength her kid arms could manage.

"Thank you so much for letting Henry come over," she huffed as she pulled back. Emma looked down at the lively, cute child, unable to keep from grinning at the eager look on Paige's face. Clearly she didn't get many visitors.

"Up you go," Jefferson warned as soon as he was close, dropping the clothes and shoes before scooping Paige up into his arms. "What have I told you about going out without your shoes on? That's how germs and bugs get under your toenails."

Emma's mouth dropped open at the more than absurd statement, but Paige just laughed and wrapped her arms around her father's neck. Obviously she wasn't too big to cuddle her Dad in public. Henry could learn a thing or two from Paige. At least when he stopped _staring_ at her.

"You'll bring them to the school tonight?" Emma asked as she handed Henry his backpack.

"Of course, Ms. Swan. I'll be by with Paige, Henry, and Nicholas around 6:30, after we have supper. He doesn't have any food allergies, does he? Gluten, legumes, guava, boar?"

"Not sure about the guava or boar, but gluten and legumes are definitely okay. Let's save the exotic fruits and game for a Friday, shall we?"

"Wait, Nicholas is here?" Henry probed morosely, looking past Paige and Jefferson to the open door behind them. "I thought he was working with the Booker twins."

"Nope," Jefferson retorted as he shifted Grace to his other hip. "The little bugger is your problem for the afternoon."

After leaving no less than ten instructions and rules for the care of her son, Emma started walking home. The only reason she trusted Jefferson to not burn his own house down was out of his deep and unshakable love for Paige. The Swans and the Graces were two sides of the same coin, inverse of one another, she couldn't help but think as she meandered through the town square. Single parents raising kids by themselves, having to deal with the unique problem of nurturing the opposite sex. Maybe she could get Jefferson to give Henry _the talk_.

Tucking her hands into the back of her pants, Emma tapped her fingers against her phone and lip gloss. Robin's news still hung heavy on her mind. She had nothing to worry about yet, what with over $30,000 in savings. But that wouldn't last forever. She needed work. She also needed to deposit that cash in a bank. Under her mattress was hardly the most secure venue.

Unknowing of her own footsteps, she was halfway down the street when she noticed Regina's face smiling at her from across the street. Not the actual woman, but a greyscale picture on a campaign flyer. The sight of the bright pink piece of paper had her giggling already – she couldn't wait to see it up close, so she crossed the street to the nicest bulletin board she'd ever seen. It had a roof and everything.

_Regina Mills – Storybrooke's Choice (endorsed by The Daily Mirror and the Storybrooke Police Department)_

Oh man, really? _Yeah, endorsed by the Storybrooke Police Department my foot_. Emma could easily picture the blonde sheriff offhandedly complimenting the mayor, and then Regina spinning it to her advantage. Shaking her head at the silliness of it all, Emma scanned the rest of the board's contents. Pictures of lost pets, weekly pie recipes, and oh, hey, job postings. A whole section of them, neatly pinned in little squares.

Eyes glancing over the classifieds section briefly, Emma took a look around to make sure no one was watching her. This was a lark for sure, but maybe someone needed shooting lessons or a restraining order enforced.

"Let's see," she mumbled, leaning closer to the board. Without her reading glasses, it was a little hard to interpret, but slowly, surely, she perused the employment selection.

"Part-time nanny, full-time bartender, candlestick maker- wait, really? Yep, a candlestick maker for Ruth Nolan's apiary. Huh."

Lots of artisan positions, but nothing for a woman with a gun and a bad attitude.

"Anything for an electrician over there?" a sweet, tinkling voice asked from her right. "My toaster's on the fritz, and I'm too in love with it to replace it."

Emma looked up just as Mary Margaret meandered up to her, a staple gun tucked under her arm, and a stack of papers in the other. She slid one piece of paper loose from its other dead tree friends, and after pressing it tight against the only free spot on the board, began stapling it with her free hand. In her blush pink, fit-and-flare coatdress, she looked every inch the music box ballerina, right down to the white Mary-Janes on her small feet.

"Nothing for an electrician, sorry, but you're as good as hired if you're adept at making candles." Pointing at the ad in question, Emma waited for Mary Margaret to lean in her direction. The lady-like school teacher winced as she finished reading, but she smiled so quickly, Emma almost thought she imagined the unhappy look.

"Can't say I'm a butcher, baker, or candlestick maker," she tittered, adjusting to papers beneath her arm as a strong breeze swept over them. "What I am, though, is _not_ looking forward to tonight."

With a light laugh, Emma reached over and grabbed the staple gun just as it started to slip free from the crook of Mary Margaret's elbow. "Neither am I. I hate PTA meetings and parent-teacher conferences. I don't exactly get along with other parents."

"Paige's father seems to like you." Emma's brows rose at Mary Margaret's comment, but the other woman was too focused on shoving the stack of papers into her tote bag. "I'm sure the other parents won't hate you too much. No guarantee on the mothers though. Most of those harpies don't do well when a younger, prettier girl walks into the room."

"Then I'm sure they hate you."

Mary Margaret smiled at the compliment, her green eyes fluttering to the adverts by Emma's shoulder.

"Oh," she puffed. "Are you looking for a job?"

Emma shrugged one slim shoulder and shifted back on her heels.

"Moving here was kind of spur of the moment. We're good for now, but I need to start working soon. I don't have the luxury of being a stay-at-home Mom."

An odd look crossed Mary Margaret's face, something bordering on contemplative. Emma pretended not to notice, instead making small talk about Mary Margaret's poster. The Miner's Festival was coming up, the teacher explained, and she was always in charge of representing the school. After that, they talked about the weather and which grocers to avoid, before saying their goodbyes. Tossing a quick look over her shoulder at the retreating teacher, Emma could only wince as Madam Mayor cornered Mary Margaret against a lamp post. The shorter, paler woman almost cowered in the face of the politician, but Emma was surprised to see that Regina's expression was almost soft. Hell, practically doe-eyed for the Evil Queen, although her tone of voice was close to barking.

True to form, there was the sheriff, trudging out of Granny's diner as Ruby held the door open. He looked as tired as Rip Van Winkle, but still directed quite the acidic glower at Madam Mayor. Whether or not she realized it, Mary Margaret had her own personal bull dog, who probably never endorsed Regina Mills for anything (if his look was anything to go on).

And damned if Emma wasn't dying to know what happened between Mary Margaret and the sheriff. But not as much as she wanted to nap. Anything to fortify herself for a night with the Harper Valley PTA.

* * *

"Your dad's a ghost."

"No, he's not."

"Henry, could you pass me the glitter? I think the roof of my birdhouse isn't shiny enough."

"If he's not a ghost, where is he?"

"He's a sailor on the HMS Mercator. Here you go Paige."

"Thanks! Could I have the pink paint too? I want to make it look like a Barbie dream house."

"Do you ever talk to him?"

"All the time. We write to each other constantly."

"Um… pink paint, please?"

"That's not talking, that's writing. You talk on phones, you write on paper. You've never spoken to your father in person, have you?"

"Shut up, Nicholas."

"Seriously guys? Hand over the pink paint."

* * *

Mary Margaret was right to be tepid about the school's open house. Emma couldn't remember the last time she'd been this mind-numbingly, foot-falling-asleep, bored. The endless presentations over scholastic achievements, after-school specials, and sports programs were so goddamn tedious, she started playing Yahtzee on her phone about, oh, five minutes or so into the first talk. The regional spelling bee was happening in Bucksport, and the language department was taking applications for contestants. Goody goody gumdrops.

The highlight of the evening was Regina Mill's lukewarm and blissfully short praise for the students and faculty.

"Thank you all for coming. For the tenth year in a row, Storybrooke Elementary is ranked in the top two-percent for standardized test scores in Maine. I couldn't be prouder of our kids and their teachers. Rest assured, if I'm reelected, I'll ensure continued funding for our gifted and talented programs. Good night."

Three lines of fluff, one line of campaign plugging and she was done. For cutting the bullshit and lengthy oration, Regina Mills deserved to be mayor for life.

Had Emma not been glued to her seat, surrounded by a gym full of tired parents, she would've enjoyed Sheriff David Nolan's lecture on safety measures (so _that's_ why Mary Margaret looked squeamish over the candlestick maker job!). Not because the subject matter was particularly interesting. (Bike helmets? Awesome. Keep wearing them. The buddy system? God's gift to man. Accepting car rides from strangers? Nope. Don't do it. No. Just no.) No, David Nolan's danger workshop was hilarious because the man was over six feet and probably two-hundred-plus pounds of prime, muscular real estate. And the women of Storybrooke? They were looking to buy.

Sheriff Nolan was way too much of a wonder boy for Emma's taste. She always did go for the smokers under the bleachers, not the quarterback leading the school to victory. But even she could admit he was attractive. All blonde hair and icy eyes, like a modern Viking (otherwise known as a Swedish hockey player). Certainly, every women listening wanted to be pillaged. They followed his long legs and broad, flat chest with sex-crazy eyes. A few even licked their lips when he tugged on the collar of his flannel button-down.

"Is there any chance you give one-on-one lessons concerning crosswalks? I'm afraid of my son being hit by a car," one particularly brazen mother cooed breathily towards the end of the lecture, sounding like she was in the throes of an orgasm. David's golden cheeks flushed apple red, and even from the twentieth row, Emma saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. Several long moments passed where all he did was stand there, arms akimbo, cyan eyes nearly bugging out his head.

That was the end of the discussion. Flustered, a witty, or even articulate comeback was just beyond his capabilities. David couldn't even get out a decent goodbye before he scuttled off the stage (stage left, house right). Emma felt her superpower switch on at his awkward gait. For all his good looks, the sheriff wanted nothing to do with the women in the audience.

Mary Margaret was not in the audience. She was in her classroom, which was Emma's last visit of the night. All parents were required to have a one-on-one conversation with their kids' teachers. Though she hadn't seen Henry, she'd seen Paige earlier, with a certain striped scarf wrapped around her neck. Henry was fine _(so help me God, Jefferson, he better be fine_), if chilly about his neck and ears. Good thing she brought along another blanket for the Bug. Okay, two down blankets and the quilt from her bed. _Maybe_ she had a problem.

Waiting patiently in the hallway outside Mary Margaret's classroom, Emma surreptitiously eyed her fellow mommies. They were all older than her. Grayer and fatter too. They'd probably gotten married and had careers before popping out babies. At the very least, they weren't eighteen. The way they eyeballed her high-heeled feet and skinny jeans in derision sent a clear message. _Stay away from our husbands, you blonde bimbo._

Much to her surprise, it was Jefferson who walked out of Mary Margaret's classroom, his hands cradling a very pink and glittery birdhouse. Obviously, this was Paige's creation. Some of the glassy powder had rubbed off on his cravat, and he wore it with horror. Emma's heart almost went out to him. It was one thing to raise a girl, but it was an entirely different thing to handle girly items. He mumbled something about taking Paige and Henry for one last ice cream cone, then tipped his head in the direction of the door. Her cue to go in.

Sitting behind her desk, small and slight in a dress of gingham and violet, Mary Margaret clicked two long needles together, trailing an already longish scarf from her pale hands. She didn't look tired at all, although that might've been the French Press perched next to her mug, which declared her to be the best teacher in the world.

"I swear to God, I will pay you for the rest of your coffee," Emma asserted as she closed the door behind her, tottering over on tired feet. "All they had was Folgers Instant Intestinal Cleaner in the gym. If you don't have a spare mug, I'll find the equipment to inject it. Hell, I'll even pretend to be interested in what you're knitting."

"It's a cable knit scarf made of forest green alpaca wool, I'll have you know, and I've been working on it for a month now."

"Yeah, banter, banter, _coffee_."

One cup of coffee turned into two cups and a bag of Milano cookies, and Emma discovered that Mary Margaret, though a vegetarian, made exceptions for bacon. She also grew her own vegetables, learned to knit and sew from her mother, and loved schlocky movies. Emma, in the spirit of fairness, told her about staking out bad guys in Utah, failed attempts at baking biscotti, and the first time Henry played in the snow. Mary Margaret seemed particularly interested in her job as a bail bonds person.

"What kind of degree do you need for that?" Mary Margaret asked as she drenched her cookie in the dregs of her coffee. Emma wasn't much better, futilely biting at the chocolate underneath her thumbnail.

"I have a bachelor's degree in criminal justice, and all I have to do is take the test and I'll be a paralegal. I don't need some mediocre white collar criminal getting off scot free because of a sloppy mistake."

Their conversation tapered off around the same time the coffee ran dry, with assurances that Henry was doing well academically and making friends. Paige wasn't mentioned directly, but before their final goodbye, Mary Margaret suggested taking a lint roller to Henry's coat. Unless he was okay with the endless torment of stray glitter.

Emma couldn't tell if it was a warning or a joke, until she saw Henry, attached at the hip with a teary Paige, as they waited outside with Jefferson. And the glitter Mary Margaret told her about? It was _everywhere_. Freckling his cheeks, dusting the lapels of his coat, _fuck_, it was in his eyelashes. Sparkly as he was though, he clearly hadn't received the brunt of the craft attack. That honor went to Nicholas, who looked less like a schoolboy, and more like an extra-dazzling Liberace as he stood over Paige's broken birdhouse.

An extra-dazzling Liberace with a split lip.

Shit.

* * *

_One-on-one lessons? Afraid of her son being hit by a car? Really?_

Faking a mega-watt smile at the middle-aged mother blathering on about…hell if he knew. David cheerlessly reflected that a man his age would normally be all over a hot cougar. Especially one obviously going through a dry spell. All he could manage was indifference shaded with terror and nausea. His large hands flexed into death grip on his hips when the woman pulled down on the hem of her already low-cut blouse. Oh dear, those cans needed to be put back in the fridge.

"I need to go over there," he blurted at the sight of leopard-printed, scalloped spandex. Over there, across the river and through the woods, somewhere other than in front of Ms. Desperate and Horny. She didn't seem too affronted as he marched over to the refreshments table. Either she was used to refusals, or her husband was back from the bathroom.

The hot burn in his cheeks probably called for water, but he went for the coffee instead, bitter as it was. His hand shook a bit around the paper thin Styrofoam, what with the harpies still lurking by the flagpole. These ones were probably divorced. There'd be no stopping them without sounding like an asshole. God, if Regina hadn't told him to stay until the event was over (some bull about police presence), he wouldn't have even showed up.

"I wouldn't drink that."

Except maybe to see her.

David spun around clumsily on his work boots, spilled lukewarm Folgers all over the cuff of his sleeve, and then stared agape at the sudden appearance of his ex-wife. His heart thundered in his chest as he took in her sooty hair, those green eyes, and the pink flush on her petal soft cheeks. And the dress. _That dress_. He remembered that dress vividly, remembered watching intently as she made the pattern with parchment paper. Remembered urging her to pick something in plaid or flannel – he had a considerable preference (if not an outright kink) for seeing her in his clothes. Considering that his last memory of the dress was peeling it off of her, he had an equal preference for seeing her in nothing at all.

All the blood below his neck rushed up to his ears until all he heard was a steady hum. Now was not the time to be thinking of hot jungle sex with his ex-wife, even if she was so close to him. Thank God she spoke again, pulling him from his train of thought.

(Which – despite the fact that he was in a goddamn elementary school - was closer to _Streetcar Named Desire_ than _Thomas the Tank Engine_.)

"It's just really disgusting. I think Mr. McNally made it ten hours ago."

He didn't hesitate to drop toss the cup blindly in the direction of the trash can. When they were married, if she asked him to jump, he brought out the trampoline. Spillage wasn't an issue, given that most of it was on his shirt. After so many nights alone, he'd have dumped the coffee on his head if it meant being close to her.

A slow burn smoldered over his chest and collarbones the longer they stood together, nothing between them but air for once. No doors, no windows, no cars, no Regina. He could've patted her on the head if he wanted to. Stroked her from head to toe. _Been_ stroked from head to toe, except that would've taken longer.

Fucking hell, he needed to get laid. But first, he needed to say something, because the longer it took him to respond, the closer her brows knitted. _Words, David. Use your words_.

"What's up?"

_An offer to screw her brains out in the locker room would've been better, but you were never articulate. Hell, even a hello would suffice._

Mary Margaret smiled timidly, her slender hands smoothing over her skirt. "Have you found a deputy yet?" she asked demurely, her jade eyes hooded from fatigue. He could only shake his head in reply – he'd been shy around her as a teenager and he was shy now. Thirty-years-old, and he felt like he was still waiting to go through puberty when it came to Mary Margaret.

"Well, I have a new student whose mom is a bail-bondsperson. She's got some impressive credentials, so… she might what be you need."

_I highly doubt that. Oh, you mean for the job._

"Sure, I can talk to her. No problem. It's the least I can do." Scratching at the back of his neck, his eyes dipped from her face to the ground. He needed courage for what he needed to say next. So much so that he'd put on a pair of red pumps, click his heels together, and look behind the curtain if that's what it took.

Clearing his throat, he lifted his chin back up to her. "Maybe… maybe you could come up to the farm this weekend? Mom's getting ready for the Miner's Festival, and I know she'd love some help."

Her smile sweetened, crinkling the corners of her eyes and the bridge of her nose.

"I'd like that."

* * *

Hey everyone! Sorry this is late. Real life sucks, you know? If I could sit around and do this forever, I would.

So, some notes. I made Emma's middle name Clara because, while I'd love to use Ruth, Ruth's alive and not her grandma in this story. Clara comes from the ballet version of _The Nutcracker_ and flows quite nicely after Emma. Paige's middle name is Theophila because the character of the Mad Hatter in _Alice in Wonderland_ is supposedly based off of a real British furniture dealer name Theophilus Carter. And last, but certainly not least, I chose Wilton for Mr. Gold's first name because it's phonetically pleasing, and because one of my favorite websites "Behind the Name" has this to say about it:

From a surname which was derived from a place name meaning "town on the River Wylye" in Old English. The river name is itself of Celtic origin, possibly meaning "tricky".

I think we can all agree that Gold is a tricky man.

Although I was inspired by the soundtrack to the movie _Pirate Radio_, Emma is listening to an album from 1977 called _Pirate Radio – 20 Golden Greats_. You can Google it to see what else she'd listen to.

That brings me to another point. Music plays a huge part in this story, from lyrics used as dialogue and description, to actual songs used for prediction. When Emma came into town, _Harper Valley PTA_ was playing on her radio. A few days later, she goes to Henry's PTA meeting and is instantly disliked.. That one isn't subtle at all, no more than a hurricane, but others are. Take the description of Mary Margaret's dress – gingham and violet. That's taken from one of my favorite songs, _Old Coats_ by Barnaby Bright. "She wore the dress he adored made of gingham and violet." If I were you, I'd check out the rest of it on Youtube.

Keep an eye out for allusions scattered throughout this. Leanne noticed some of them (love you bunches!), but they will be everywhere. I just can't resist.

Please, please, _pleeeeeeease_ leave a review. They let me know what you like, and what you think I need to work on. I know right now the story's moving kind of slowly, but I need to build the world a little bit first. Things definitely pick up in the next chapter, and Killian shows up in chapter six!

To end this author's note, I'd like to thank my lovely beta-reader, trustpixiedust. She's a much more established writer around here, so I have no idea what she's doing helping me out.

In the words of a rather famous bird-shaped hat, please leave a contribution in the little box. In the form of reviews, favorites and follows, of course!


	5. Chapter 5

_Mrs. Nolan,_

_This letter is to inform you that your loft has been sublet by a Ms. Emma Clara Swan. I believe her son is one of your students._

_How you adjust the monthly rent is up to you. Until your five-year lease is up, it is your responsibility to get me my $875 a month. As long as I receive what is owed, I don't care how much you gouge your new tenant. Think of it as a hassle-free opportunity for income. Considering David surrendered the house you shared in the divorce, you won't want for anything._

_Do say hello to your charming husband and mother-in-law for me. You never did change your name on the lease. Until you get around to fixing that, I will address you by your married name._

_Kind regards,  
Wilton Gold_

* * *

Wind whipped through Mary Margaret's hair and down the neck of her blouse as she darted to her old apartment building. April was just weeks away and it felt like another damn snowstorm was coming. Knowing her luck, the skies would open up over her head and dump six inches of sleet on her before she even made it through the door.

Hunching her shoulders up around her ears, Mary Margaret jostled her way through the front entrance, propelled by a strong gust of wind and the frantic need to be warm. The intricately carved cedar panels and smoky glass, inlaid with wrought-iron latticework, were achingly familiar. As she stepped into the vestibule, still panting from her battle with the wind, she took in the clapboard and exposed brick. This was her home for many years. Briefly, it was David's home as well, before they moved into their house.

Memories flooded her mind with each step into the building, and with each floor, her feet moved just a little bit slower. Just inside the airlock, she said goodbye to her father after the last box had been moved from her childhood home. Halfway up the first floor, on the step with a white shoeprint from when the landlord stepped in paint, she and Regina made peace. Near the bay window on the landing between the second and third floor, David sat her down on the shiplap bench. To keep her from taking up Holy Orders (which she had contemplated ever since a child), he cupped her cheeks with his wide palms and kissed the breath from her lungs.

As love stories went, theirs wasn't grand, Mary Margaret thought to herself as she trudged her way up to her old front door. They met as children, lost touch as teenagers, and reconnected as adults. Truth be told, they were barely grown – she had just gotten her first job after college, and he'd only been a cop for three years. But by then, they'd both been through too many life experiences. Each had suffered the death of a parent and the consequent lost childhood, she'd uncovered a family secret, and David had already gone through a nasty divorce.

Who knew he'd have to go through an amicable one as well.

Shaking off the maudlin path her mind had wandered through, Mary Margaret transferred her gift basket from one hand to the other, and gave the door three hearty knocks. It wasn't time to mourn old memories. It was time to make new ones, with a woman she genuinely liked and wanted to know better.

Something shuffled behind the door, slow and bumbling. Whoever was approaching was probably stumbling as opposed to walking. Mary Margaret stepped back a few inches as the door swung open, narrowly missing the tip of her nose. On the other side was her new tenant. Emma Clara Swan, mother to one of her students, and all around badass chick. She was everything Mary Margaret wasn't, and as Mary Margaret waited on baited breath, she hoped that Emma would want to get to know her as well.

Emma looked almost confused by Mary Margaret's appearance, bleary eyes huge and round in her cherub-cheeked face. Having only seen her a handful of times in person, Mary Margaret couldn't say for sure that Emma had looked better. But she certainly hadn't looked worse. That lovely cornsilk hair of hers was limp and stringy around her face, a few choppy pieces falling close to the dark circles under her eyes. Mary Margaret grew self-conscious under the heaviness of that viridian gaze. She tried to maintain eye contact, but swallowed and looked down once the intensity became too much.

From the first moment she'd met her, Emma had been almost too intense, and Mary Margaret found herself sinking in her own insecurities. But Emma didn't notice the flush on Mary Margaret's cheeks at all. Her eyes were on a different prize.

"Are those cookies?" she asked in wonder, gazing down at Mary Margaret's hip. The school teacher looked down at the small hen basket dangling from her hand, gaping like she'd forgotten it was there.

"Oh," she stammered after several long seconds. "Yes. There's some sugar cookies and seven layer bars, plus a few small jars of honey and Marionberry jam. They're for you… obviously. I'm your new landlord."

Still kind of abashed, Mary Margaret didn't notice Emma move until she snatched the basket away. The breath shocked right out of her, Mary Margaret called on all her bravery and looked up. Emma had one foot off the ground, thigh pressed up and against her belly, with the basket balanced on her knee. She dug greedily through the gifts, brushing aside the almond soap and tea bags, until she had a firm grasp on the Saran wrapped cookies.

"I can't cook," Emma quickly blustered. "Any time Henry wants cookies or pies, either he has to make them, or I have to buy them. He'd love to eat these, and I _don't want him to have any_."

The moment she had her hands on a cookie, Emma shoved it into her mouth in two huge and frankly disgusting bites. All while balanced perfectly on one foot. Someone was a yoga fan.

Mary Margaret cocked one brow at the venomous tinge to Emma's tone. This woman loved her son more than the Virgin Mary loved Jesus, and she didn't want to share a single cookie?

Wait a second…

"This is about the fight, isn't it?" Mary Margaret gently asked, letting her sentence end on a sigh. Emma, her mouth still full, with another cookie on hand, could only nod her agreement. The morose knit in her brows hinted at disappointment more than anger. Mary Margaret could deal with disappointment. Not that she couldn't deal with anger, but disappointment was an easier emotion to rescue someone from. At least in her experience. All her depressingly varied experience.

"Emma," she soothed as the other woman inhaled the next cookie. "While I can't condone what Henry did, he did it for his best friend. I'm not sure why Nicholas did it… outside of the fact that he's a little brat, but he smashed that birdhouse right in front of her. Henry took a swing at him, _after_ he tried to comfort Paige, who was pretty much beyond sense."

Several long moments of frantic chewing passed, but eventually Emma slowed down her feasting until the last bite was swallowed. She didn't take another, but she didn't look up either.

"I know in my brain and heart that he didn't do it in anger," she whispered after an incredibly long and awkward minute. "But I'm just not ready."

Mary Margaret smiled mildly. "Ready for what?"

"For my little boy to have a girlfriend."

Wait.

What?

That was… hmm…

"Um…" Mary Margaret began once her jaw came up off the floor. "We'll cross that bridge when we get to it. For now, Paige and Henry are just muddling through some complicated emotions. But I don't think that's what the fight was about."

Emma grabbed for another cookie and lifted her eyes to Mary Margaret's. "Like I give a shit about the fight. My first punch was thrown at six-years-old, and I took down a boy twice my age. I just need my kid to be a kid for a little while longer."

Not so long ago, Mary Margaret's biological clock ticked like a time bomb. Now, when faced with the effects of motherhood, she almost saw why David had been against the idea. Almost. Mean right hook aside, Henry was a wonderful boy, and Mary Margaret wanted six just like him.

"I once shot an arrow at Regina," she admitted without hesitation. "I was eight and she was thirteen. It nicked her thigh. When my mother demanded to know what was wrong with me, I replied that I didn't know. I never miss my mark, but I'd been aiming for her calf."

While not her proudest moment (her aim was usually spot on), the short story was enough to knock the sadness right out of Emma. She gawked at Mary Margaret liked she'd sprouted elephant ears and a rhino horn. Mary Margaret definitely understood the gawk. Admitting to assault with a dangerous weapon made her sound nuttier than an outhouse rat, but six of one, half a dozen of another. Or some other proverb that explained the insanity of that remark.

Taking advantage of Emma's silence, Mary Margaret decided to drop another bomb, albeit one a few shades less crazy.

"I told the sheriff about you. Your work and education. He's been looking for a deputy for a while, and I think you'd be great at it. He'd like to meet you at the station for coffee next Wednesday."

Emma plucked a third cookie from the basket and contemplated it for a moment.

"We might not be here that long, to be honest," she commented with a shrug before popping the cookie in her mouth. The entire cookie. In one go. Yuck.

"I said that too when I first moved here," Mary Margaret quipped with a quick shrug. "And I've been here for twenty-two years. I have so many good memories that I've never even thought of moving."

"You must've been, like, three-years-old," Emma remarked around a glob of half-chewed cookie. "How the hell did you remember that?"

Another shrug.

"It's always stuck with me."

Emma swallowed another mouthful of cookie and narrowed her eyes.

But Mary Margaret would not be cowed so easily. At least right now while Emma was too busy chewing on the cookie to do the same thing to her.

"His name is David Nolan, he was at the open house, and the meeting is for nine in the morning. Go see him after you drop Henry off."

Finally letting her foot fall to the ground, Emma pressed her bare toes into the scrubbed wooden floors and clutched the hen basket to her stomach.

"I'm not sure…"

But Henry was.

"She'll take the job!" he called from inside the apartment. "And I'm really sick of being grounded!"

Emma looked over her shoulder as if she couldn't believe Henry's audacity, but when she looked to Emma, the frown pulling her mouth was more resigned than upset.

"So you're ex-husband really wants to meet up with me?"

Mary Margaret nodded enthusiastically. Emma crowed her reply.

"Ha! I knew it!"

* * *

With a population barely breaking six-thousand, Emma expected the police station to be small. Just not that small. It looked almost no different from the other storefronts crowded around it. The inside was just as cramped, and a little bell above the door, the same make as the one in Granny's diner, chimed when she elbowed her way in, like she was a customer out to make a purchase. As soon as the door closed, her skin tingled as the temperature went from tundra to tropical. Stupid, fucking wind. It had been howling for the better part of a week, bringing with them grey flannel crowds, heavy and pregnant with snow. Any geezer with a fake knee swore up and down that a nor'easter was a-comin'. And it was gonna suck.

Moving into the small space, packed with desks and file cabinets, Emma suddenly felt nervous. She never felt nervous when it came to job interviews. The worst that could happen was not getting the job. But she was _always_ nervous when it came to officers of the law. Would they judge her for having a criminal past? Declare her an unfit mother and take Henry away? Collect all the library books she never returned?

None of that, as it turned out, would be a problem. Sheriff Golden Boy was slumped over his desk, fast asleep with his head mashed facedown against an open manila folder. She smelled fresh coffee as she tiptoed over to the desk, definitely the good stuff and not Folgers, so he mustn't have been asleep for long. Emma couldn't help but smile at the way his large form was contorted into a smallish ball. It was so fucking pathetic, she felt tempted to take the job out of pity.

Some childish part of her wanted to slam her hands down on the desk and scare the shit out of him, but the adult part screamed _potential employer! POTENTIAL FREAKIN' EMPLOYER! _She decided to listen to that part and save her childish half for Henry.

"Excuse me?" she uttered quietly as she took a seat. David didn't move an inch. Even his breathing stayed still. Mary Margaret was blessed to have had a husband who didn't snore. Every guy she'd been with sounded like a cat clawing at an accordion. "Officer? Sheriff? David?"

Hot shit, this man slept like the dead. She tapped her fingernails against the desk, knocked her heels against the ground, scraped her chair along the ground. Nothing. He just lied there like a rag doll. Time for a different approach. Reaching into her purse, a tasteful Dooney number, she pulled out her phone. Several finger taps and swipes brought her to her intended destination. Ringtones and saved music previews.

Docking procedure almost complete.

With one press of her thumb, a screechy bell sounded out loudly, but still the sheriff slept. She knew he would – she was counting on phase two of her plan. Eyes still glued to Captain Sleepyhead, Emma clicked the ringtone off and held the cell to her cheek and ear. Blast off.

"Oh hey, Mary Margaret!" she squealed a little too eagerly. "How goes it?"

David's head snapped up off the table so quickly he could've shattered his spine. He rubbed at his groggy eyes and groaned himself out of his dazed stupor. Mission accomplished.

Emma waited a few minutes before replying to 'Mary Margaret,' and ended the conversation with "Yeah, I made it. I'll be by to pick up Henry later." Then she hung up. So what if using his wife to get his attention was shady and underhanded? No one ever excused her of taking the high road. Being the bigger person was for pussies.

"Oh man, I'm so sorry," he yawned behind a long-fingered hand. His left hand. Which happened to have a scuffed, but incredibly beautiful ring on his fourth finger. Two rose gold bands bands framed a center inlay of silver filigree. The lacy pattern was more arabesque or elfin than Celtic, and randomly smattered with miniscule green stones. No shit, it was way too ornate for a flannel shirt and hiking boots guy like David, but well-suited to Mary Margaret's dainty side.

Okay, if she could make out this much detail on something so small (plus every scar and freckle), his hand had been on his face way too long. She wasn't about to let him fall asleep on her again.

"Thanks for meeting up with me," she said louder than necessary. "I've been looking for work, but nothing really appealed to me. At least nothing I'm used to."

Blinking with owlish but still electrically blue eyes, David gave her a smile that pleasantly crinkled the corners of his eyes. Barely older than her and he had the makings of crow's feet. _Ooh, that reminds me, I need to pick up under-eye and wrinkle cream._

"From what I've heard, you won't be used to this either." David pulled himself up into perfect posture and folded his hands on the papers in front of him. From the top of his head down to where his waist disappeared behind the desk, he was every inch the dignified lawman. Emma felt that familiar tug of terror that was only slightly tempered by his easy grin.

"Listen, I'm going to be frank," he continued before she could reply. "What I'm doing is probably illegal, considering you haven't gone through the academy or anything, but I'm just gonna give you the job. I talked to your old bosses, called up every state you're registered as a bounty hunter in, and ran a background check. You're more than qualified and I really need the help."

So much for being comforted by that easygoing grin. A background check? _Fuck shit._ A layman working the counter could run a background check without getting everything. Sealed records and all that. Government work though? Nothing was sealed. No sins expunged. He had access to every bad decision she'd ever made.

An awkward silence settled over them, and she saw David's smile fall, his brows pressing together as her eyes dropped to her lap. "So you know everything then?" she asked meekly. "About Phoenix?" David was slow to reply, but when he did, not even his soft, kind tone kept her heart from being checked into the boards.

"I know you're a good mom," he murmured softly. "That you never need to correct your aim because you never miss your mark. You're not that girl who got arrested for making a stupid mistake."

Well shit.

Now she had to take the job.

* * *

Henry really wished Ms. Blanchard had paired him with Paige. Paige he knew. Paige he liked. Ms. Blanchard must've sensed something was off between them though. He knew she was watching them when Jefferson walked them up to the school from his car. Mom had a job interview that morning, so Mr. Grace had volunteered to take them. Surprisingly Mom agreed right away. Weird hats and scarves aside, Mom pretty much was okay with Mr. Grace.

It wasn't the strange car ride over that had him down in the dumps, although it was pretty bizarre. The backseat of Mr. Grace's car was so covered in sketches of very thin women in funky hats and coats, it took five minutes to clear all of them away. He used to make winter accessories by hand, but now all he had to do was design them, Paige explained gleefully as she adjusted the knit cap on her head. Paige then went through every single drawing while Mr. Grace fiddled with the radio station. Between the loud music and Paige's ooh-ing and ahh-ing, by the time they arrived in the carpool lane, Henry's head was full and buzzing. So much that when Paige switched subjects, he didn't even notice.

"You've written your Dad so many letters," she whispered to him as Mr. Grace parked the car. "Why hasn't your Mom?"

Then they got out of the car, and Mr. Grace picked up Grace and swung her around and around. He was much stronger than he looked, Henry marveled when Mr. Grace held Paige to him with just one arm. The other he used to tap on the side of her nose as they whispered to one another. She laughed and he laughed. Paige promised to be good and he put her down.

Mr. Grace even had a nice goodbye for him. He crouched down to Henry's level, pinched his chin gently with his thumb and forefinger, and said thanks for making Paige happy. Before Henry could stop him, Mr. Grace draw him in for a quick hug, ruffled his hair, and got back in his car. Weird and kooky as it was, it was also kind of nice. For a little while there, he could almost pretend he had a Dad.

Until he remembered that he _didn't_ like Paige as a sister, or even as a friend sometimes. He wasn't sure yet.

He stuck behind a while Paige bounced around with her friends, and when he came into class, he was shoulder-to-shoulder with Nicholas. Ms. Blanchard must've taken that was a cue to stick them together on a project.

And now here they were, quietly sitting together as Ms. Margaret explained the science behind making a hammered flower print. She spoke of natural dyes and the different parts of a flower, but really, everyone was way too excited to play with hammers to pay attention.

Which is why Nicholas's silence was so strange. He sat quiet and at attention beside Henry, his eyes on the board in front of him. Most days he'd be 'not' touching Henry or scribbling things onto his assignment, but today, he was quiet. The very model of a good student.

Just as Henry was beginning to think things had changed, that maybe Nicholas wasn't a total jerk, everything got back to normal. Nicholas dug his elbow into Henry's side, drawing his attention. The smile on his face was practically evil, but Henry didn't have to focus on it for long.

When Ms. Blanchard turned her back to draw a stamen on the chalkboard, Nicholas pulled a sheet of paper from his pants pocket. A newspaper article, from the looks of it.

No, an advertisement, Henry worked out as she unfolded the small article. For a shipping gazette in Portland. Nicholas had circled what he wanted Henry to look at in red.

_HMS Mercator set to dock at Port of Portland on April 2__nd__, 0800 hours. Help needed to unload cargo. Please contact harbormaster if interested._

* * *

_Dear Dad,_

_I can't believe your boat is coming to Portland! That's only three hours away from us! You know, I think Mom knew you would be coming here, and that's why she moved us. It was so sudden, quicker than usual, but now it all makes sense. _

_Mom didn't tell me. That boy I told you about, Nicholas, he did. He handed me a news article this morning. At recess, I called him a liar and then said that he faked it. He told me that he didn't, and then we snuck off to the library to use a computer. The same article he brought me was online at the Port of Portland's official website. Apparently, Nicholas's dad has a brother who works at the docks. He brings them newsletters all the time, and this one said your boat was coming._

_Nicholas and I made a bet. He bet me every map you've ever sent that you wouldn't come to see me. That you didn't care. I know that's not true, so I bet him his favorite compass that you __**would**_ _come. I even said that you would help set up for the Miner's festival, since I think it's really close to your docking date._

_I know it was a stupid thing to do. You'll probably have to work, and might not get shore leave. I'll come and see you if that's the case. In case you don't recognize me, I have brown hair, and brownish-green eyes. My skin's pale and kind of freckled like Mom's, and she says that we have the same nose, so look out for that._

_I'm so excited, Dad. I think this was supposed to happen._

_Love,_

_Henry_

* * *

She couldn't breathe.

Oh God, she couldn't breathe.

Emma looked down at the paper clenched in her fists, trying to get in oxygen past her throat, but it just wasn't happening. Distantly she heard her breath rattling through the empty station – David had gone home hours ago, leaving her to man the phone. With nothing interesting going on, she got caught up on some late night reading. Usually the highlight of her day.

Henry's tidy handwriting was almost completely shredded by her fingers, but the message remained. The HMS Mercator was coming to town, and Henry expected his father to be on it; but as Emma looked down at the rolls of vintage maps poking out of her bag, purchased months ago in Maryland, she knew that wasn't going to happen.

It wasn't the beginning that Henry thought it was going to be.

It was the end.


End file.
